


^^P 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Of a special edition of five hundred copies this is 
No. 

r 




^%^ 



* ' I 






y/hMn^CX^^. Dfh 




SELECTED 



PROSE WRITINGS 



OF 



/ 



.^ 



MRS. EMMA C.'EMBURY 



'^^0^"^^ 



V 



NEW-YORK 

PRINTED AT THE DE VINNE PRESS 

1893 









.t^. 



Copyright, 1893, by 
Anna K. Sheldon. 



PREFACE. 

It may he of interest to the reader to Mow when 
and where these selections from the writings of Mrs. 
Emma C. Emhnry were puhlished. '^Thoughts of 
a Silent Man," written under the nom de plume of 
Rudolph Rertzmann, appeared in a New-Yorl weekly 
paper called the Broadway Journal, in 1845 ; ''JS'o- 
tions about Music" and ''ThePoefs Thought," 
with the same signature, in another weeJcly, Hewefs 
Excelsior and Wew-Yorl Illustrated Times, the 
date not hnoivn, hut prohahly not very far from the 
time of the first-mentioned papers. The last two 
pieces, under the title ''Midsummer Fancies," have 
never hefore heen priyited. The remaining pa- 
pers ivere puhlished at different periods in the 
Lady's Companion and the Columbian, of New- 
York, also Godefs Lady's Book and Graham's 
Lady's and Gentleman's Magazine, of Philadelphia, 
the lest and most popular monthlies of their day. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Thoughts op a Silent Man ; 

No. 1 1 

No. 2 7 

No. 3 13 

No. 4 22 

No. 5 29 

Notions about Music 38 

Genius and its Rewards 47 

Essay on American Literature ... 60 

The Rights of Children 71 

Corinna 86 

Moods of the Mind . . . . . 104 

Growing Old 122 

A Chapter on Idleness 135 

The Spirit-Bond. A Fantasy . . . 150 

Barbara Uttman's Dream 169 

The Poet's Thought 183 

The Fane-Builder 194 

The Child's Mission ...... 202 

Midsummer Fancies: 
The Voice of the Charmer. (Pleasure) . 218 
The Vine. (Loyalty) . . . . .222 



€t)aug]^tj0? of a Silent 09ait 

No. 1. 



Nemo est meorum amicorum liodie 

Apud quem expromerc occulta mea audeam. 

\¥ all the various causes which may be 
assigned for the superabundance of in- 
ferior authorship, so much complained 
of among readers, perhaps the most 
frequent may be found in that terrible necessity 
for expression which in many minds is even more 
powerful than the ^' strong necessity of loving." 
Yet the world rarely understands this. Ambition, 
avarice, and, above all, vanity, are regarded as 
propellants to literary labor, while a yearning for 
sympathy, a desire for repose, an irrepressible 
longing to claim kindred with congenial hearts 
are feelings which are rarely believed in or appre- 
ciated. The practical part of the world, who live 




2 Thoughts of a Silent Man. 

on from day to day, governed only by the exigen- 
cies of the moment; and yielding to the expedien- 
cies of the passing honr, can have no idea of such 
needs. They find sufficient utterance in the gos- 
sip of petty scandal, the discussion of minor politi- 
cal questions, or the detail of every-day business. 
They eat, drink, sleep, and read newspapers ; while 
the real energies of their nature are all expended 
in the task of gain. They live for bargaining and 
trading; they feel no vacancy of soul, because they 
have filled that temple of the living God with the 
tables of the money-changers. 

But to those who think deeply, and feel vividly, 
expression is a necessity of their being. They 
must " speak or die." Some find their utterance 
in the interchange of socialities, some in discours- 
ing elegant music 5 some speak in the wordless 
tints of painting; some few work out the ideal of 
their souls in the enduring marble, and some send 
forth their thoughts, winged by poesy, to the far 
winds of heaven. Yet there are still left many to 
whom are denied all these resources. There are 
some who have all the elements of power within 
them, but have never had their lips touched with 
the live coal from the altar, which was to the pro- 
phet both inspiration and expression. There are 
some who seem, like Zacharias, to be struck dumb 
by the very power which brings the promise of 
blessing : some to whom self-distrust is an incubus 



Thoughts of a Silent Man. 3 

upon the mind^ exciting it to an uneasy activity, 
yet deterring it from utterance. Without putting 
forth any pretension to the possession of the higher 
order of such power, I may yet claim to know some- 
thing of the discomforts attendant upon compul- 
sory silence. I have outlived all the associates of 
early life, and my unconquerable shyness of tem- 
per has prevented me from forming new ones. I 
have a large circle of acquaintances and many 
family friends, but not one to whom I can open 
my inner heart. I have a competent fortune, re- 
fined tastes, and, I think, warm affections; yet I 
lead the life of a hermit so far as social sympa- 
thies are concerned. In the opinion of the world 
I have all the means of happiness within my reach, 
but all these gifts are marred by the want of a 
power which is so generally possessed, that, like 
the blessings of light and air, people scarcely 
value it — I mean the power of expressing my 
over-burdened mind in words. I cannot talk. An 
unfortunate impediment in my speech, which is 
always increased by any nervous excitement, is 
one obstacle ; but another, and more insuperable 
one, is my unconquerable shyness and self-dis- 
trust. I enjoy society with m}^ whole heart. I 
listen to brilliant conversation (for I number 
among my friends some of the best talkers I ever 
heard), and within my own mind I take full part 
in it. Ready rejoinders, sparkling repartees, un- 



4 Thoughts of a Silent Man. 

answerable arguments, profound reflections, high- 
toned moralizing, and all the varied forms of 
spoken eloquence are wrought out in the cham- 
bers of mine imagery. Sometimes I delude myself 
with the belief that I have really contributed my 
proportion of amusement to the social circle. My 
fancies are so vivid that it often seems to me as if 
I had actually uttered all the fine things which 
have been passing through my mind. I have often 
pleased myself with such a belief, and have ex- 
perienced for a moment all the satisfaction of a 
man who has acted well his part in society, until 
some trivial recollection has brought me back to 
the consciousness that mine had been only an 
" imaginary conversation," a sort of a vivification 
of birth-strangled ideas. How can one like me 
find expression 1 My mind is too active for con- 
tinued silence ; it hives up stores of knowledge, it 
accumulates masses of facts, it fashions images of 
beauty, it works out conceptions of goodness and 
greatness. Why then must it be ever dumb, when 
it would utter the oracles of nature and truth ? I 
am resolved. I will take my humble pen, and, sur- 
rounded by my books, those quiet friends whose 
silence is so suggestive, I will imprison in written 
words the busy fancies which so disturb my peace. 
Crude and ill-arranged as my ideas may seem, they 
will perhaps give out glimpses of something better 
to come. There is more in me than I can now 



Thoughts of a Silent Man. 5 

litter, but a true word was never yet spoken in 
vain, and it may be that some one will become 
the happier for having picked up a rough-hewn 
thought from my quarry. I do not flatter myself 
that mine is an unusual case, or that I possess the 
genius which demands freedom. There is no con- 
dition of life to which the history of human nature 
does not afford numerous parallels, and one of 
the grand mistakes which make the wretchedness 
of mortals is the belief in a peculiar destiny of 
suffering. Therefore 1 know that thousands have 
felt as I do, and could doubtless have expressed 
their feelings better. As for genius, that is a gift 
of God, vouchsafed once in an age to the world. 
Men of talent may be counted by hundreds, men 
of learning by thousands, but men of genius must 
still be numbered by tens, although the world is six 
thousand years old. Besides, genius comes with 
a commission from the Most High ; it cannot be 
silent, even if it would. 

But I am wearied of ceaseless commune in che 
shyness of my own heart, wearied of perpetual 
activity and unbroken silence. I would fain speak, 
aye, speak without feeling the eye of ridicule 
scorching my cheek, without having my ear pained 
by the half-inarticulate sounds that fall from my 
stammering lips, without feeling in every vein the 
throb of that terrible silence which always follows 
my attempts at vocal utterance. It may be that 



6 Thoughts of a Silent Man. 

old age is creeping upon me apace, and that I 
grow garrulous as I grow gray. It may be that I 
am mistaken in thinking I have anything to say. 
If so, I shall soon learn my error, for nothing is so 
severe a trial of one's crude fancies as the sight of 
them in print. We all have our imaginings, but 
when the " soul of our thoughts " first appears be- 
fore us in actual form and type, we feel very much 
as if we looked upon an apparition from the world 
of shadows, and, like the witch of Endor, we are 
terrified before the specter we have ourselves 
called forth. 




anjou0lf)t!0^ of a ,^ilcnt ^m. 

No. 2. 



La nature n' est pour Vhomme que les feuilles eparses de la 
Sybille, dont nul, jusqu'a ce jour, n'a pu faire un Uvre. 




HE tendency of philosophy in the seven- 
teenth century was toward abstrac- 
tion and mysticism. The high-toned 
^ mind, when lifting itself above com- 
mon things, cherished a contempt for the claims 
of ordinary humanity, and lost itself in the pure 
vacuum of abstract truth- while the restless and 
fanciful thinkers of the age, unable to plume their 
wings to so bold a flight, reached only to the 
cloudy regions of mysticism, and, like the traveler 
on the Hartz Mountains, beheld their own shadows 
magnified into giants by the fog. The course of 
the human mind is onward, but it pursues a very 
winding way. Accordingly we find the succeeding 



8 Thoughts of a Silent Man. 

century marked by a spirit of analysis and skep- 
ticism. Nothing but demonstrable truth was re- 
ceived. The mind, the organ of intelligence, 
was alone called into exercise; while doubt was 
thrown upon the very existence of the sonl, that 
dweller in the inner temple, that recipient and ex- 
ponent of God's truth through conscience. In the 
progress of the human intellect, we now behold 
another phase. The present is eminently the age 
of inquiry. Men speculate upon everything; they 
seek to generalize all things. Every fact in nature, 
every truth in physics, is made the nucleus of a 
theory, which, whether true or false, finds ready 
receivers. He who is content to satisfy his mind 
with the exact sciences, and his soul with trusting 
faith, is regarded as one who lingers last in the 
march of intellect. The habit of theorizing upon 
every discovery in art or science has given to the 
faculty of imagination a much higher rank in the 
scale of mental power than philosophers of former 
times were willing to allow. In some men this 
faculty has all the power of a separate and distinct 
mind — a sort of " double," or ghost, of the faculty 
of reason. Formerly men of imagination were 
poets, novelists, or painters; now we find them 
philosophers, metaphysicians, and mechanicians. 
Once the highest province allotted to the imagina- 
tion was the privilege of decorating truth; but 
now it often happens that while reason busies her- 



Thoughts of a Silent Man. 9 

self in defining, arranging, and combining some 
abstract theory, imagination is employed in analyz- 
ing and assimilating the truths of science. But 
as, in former times, the spirit of analysis led by im- 
perceptible gradations to skepticism, so it seems to 
me that, in modern days, the habit of generaliza- 
tion tends decidedly toward materialism. Take 
for instance a book recently published, which, for 
lucid arrangement, and admirably sustained gen- 
eralization, is unsurpassed by any work on the 
same subject — I mean ''Vestiges of the Natural 
History of Creation.'^ It contains no new facts, 
but is filled with groups of facts (so to speak) 
which come to us as new, because they appear so 
striking in their arrangement. The author is no 
materialist ; on the contrary, he takes great pains 
to disclaim all such tendencies, yet what a store- 
house of materialism would his book afford to 
one who doubted every truth which did not come 
through the intellect. His own faith in his theories 
adds an irresistible charm to his arguments, and it 
requires a most determined examination of truth 
to distinguish in many instances the workings 
of his imagination from the action of his reason. 
His system of progression has no limit short 
of Deity, and notwithstanding the experience of 
thousands of years tells us that, however the 
human mind may have advanced, the physical 
structure has known no other changes than such 



10 Thoughts of a Silent Man. 

as are made by climate and modes of life, he talks 
of that perfect type of Divinity to which man may 
hereafter attain. Have we not already had in the 
Incarnate Divinity the most perfect type of exalted 
" Humanity " ? Or can it be believed that when 
^' God was made man, and dwelt among us/' he 
wore the semblance of an inferior humanity, which 
to the nobler race destined to succeed us will seem 
as degraded in the scale of being as do the various 
tribes of Simia in comparison with the present 
race of mankind ? In his theory of the geological 
and vegetable transformations many discoveries 
in science seem to bear him out, and although facts 
might be adduced which would at least throw some 
doubt upon it, yet his picture of creation at the 
period of "carboniferous formation" is so sublime 
that we would fain believe it as true as it is grand. 
Its suggestiveness is positively overpowering. He 
has given us only a few noble strokes of the pencil, 
but it would require all the genius of a Milton to 
fill up the outlines he has traced. When he applies 
his system to animate nature, however, we feel its 
fallacy. The merest tyro in physiology can bring 
the most decided testimony against him. All the 
laws of nature (as they are called) prove the im- 
possibility of generating superior races from in- 
ferior ones, or even of producing, from the union 
of the two, a species capable of continuous repro- 
duction. It may be answered that the Almighty, 



TJionghts of a Silent Man. 11 

who made those laws, is superior to them, but this 
does not settle the question, since, if we believe 
in a departure from the laws of progression in 
a single instance, we may as well believe in the 
miracle of instantaneous creation. There is some- 
thing frightful to feeble human nature in the idea 
of necessity ruling with iron rod over earth's help- 
less children. How can we imagine Heaven filled 
only by an infinite Intelligence to which we 
are but as atoms of dust on the rolling wheel of 
progression? A finite mind shrinks before such 
a fearful truth. Jean Paul has given us some 
idea of such a state of orphanage in his terrific 
" Dream." 

His powerful imagination has carried the hor- 
rors of atheism into the world of spirits. He 
brings before us a vision of the souls of buried 
children, wandering blindly through a dark, vague 
space, and calling vainly upon a Heavenly Father, 
while the voice of the risen Christ mournfully re- 
plies, " We are all orphans — we have no Father in 
Heaven." He who first called God our Father 
knew more of the human heart than the most pro- 
found thinkers. His book is one of great power, 
and greater suggestiveness ; yet one of his readers, 
at least, closed the volume with a feeling of deep 
sadness. As I sate in my lonely room pondering 
over its facts and fancies, my thoughts shaped 
themselves into the language of earnestness, which 



12 ThougJits of a Silent Man. 

is poetry; and, safe in my own insignificance, I 
thus spake out : 



TO THE AUTHOR OF VESTIGES OF CREATION. 

Self -Missioned Leader through Creation's maze ! 

Dost thou interpret thus God's mighty scheme ? 

Weaving the cobweb fancies of a dream 
O'er each gray vestige of His mystic ways ? 
When thus 'mid chaos thou didst blindly grope. 

Gathering new links for matter's heavy chain, 
Dwelt there not in thy soul the secret hope 

That some strong truth would rend the bond of 
pain 
Which fixed thee to Progression's iron wheel ? 

Oh, teach not suffering earth such hopeless 
creed : 
Too heavy were her curse if doomed to feel 

That in her frequent hour of bitter need, 
Her lifted eye of prayer could only see 
Necessity's stern laws graven on eternity. 



€f|ou0f)t^ of a Silent ^an* 

No. 3. 




HAD been amusing an idle moment 
with Elia's delightful essay on '' Im- 
perfect Sympathies/' when, as I laid 
down the book, my eye fell upon the 
^'Correspondence between Burns and Clarinda." 
This gave rise to a train of thought respecting 
those '^ instinctive antipathies" which the mass 
of mankind so readily allow, and those 'Annate 
assimilations " about which they are so skeptical. 
Everybody has some idiosyncrasy with regard to 
likings and dislikings. The '^ non te amo, Sabide," 
of the Latin poet, in its English doggerelism of 

I do not love thee, Dr. Fell ; 
The reason why I cannot tell : 
But only this I know full well, 
I do not love thee, Dr. Fell, 

has come home to the coarsest as well as to the finest 
minds. There are persons who inspire us with an 

13 



14 Thoughts of a Silent Man. 

instant repugnance — persons with whom we, if 
pugnacious, would like to pick a quarrel; or, if in 
a gracious mood, we would at least like to see 
kicked by our next neighbor. There are people 
whose souls inhabit an atmosphere so uncongenial 
to our own, that we feel their presence as if we 
were breathing a sort of mephitic air, benumbing 
every faculty, and smothering every impulse. 

The refinements of education and cultivated 
society may render this sense more painfully deli- 
cate, but it is universal in its existence. Look at 
any ship's company, for instance, meeting perhaps 
for the first time in their lives, in the forecastle, 
which is to be their home during the months to 
come, and you will perceive sudden antipathies 
exhibited between certain individuals, and sudden 
assimilations between others, for no outward cause. 
It is an instinct of the soul, a recognition of kin- 
dred or a perception of antagonistic nature. Why 
is it, then, that while everybody is willing to ac- 
knowledge a faith in instinctive dislikes, few are 
found as ready to believe in instinctive attachments 1 
If the one part of the proposition be true, the 
other must be not less so. People say seriously, 
'' I don't like Mr. Such-an-one — I can't tell why, 
but I took a dislike to him the first time I ever 
saw him " ; and yet these same people will sneer at 
the notion of " love at first sight." Now I do not 
believe that love in its fuU perfectness and grand 



Thoughts of a Silent Man. 15 

developments — love wearing the proof -armor of 
friendship and fidelity — is born thus instanta- 
neoush^ But that there may be a sudden rec- 
ognition of soul, an instant sense of kindred 
affinities, a secret sympathy exerting magnetic 
influence over two individuals, without any de- 
cided volition on the part of either, is most un- 
doubtedly true. 

Under favorable circumstances, this instinctive 
preference grows into the full stature of true love; 
under others it may attain the size of friendship ; 
and if there exist uncongenialities around, it may 
be chilled and frozen into the semblance of indif- 
ference. Who that ever overcame one of these 
instinctive dislikes did not find reason, at some 
after period, to lament their having done so! 
Who that ever conquered an instinctive prefer- 
ence did not find its specter haunting the silent 
chambers of the heart, long after more reasonable 
likings have left no trace of their existence ! One 
of the falsest of all false theories is that which 
denies the existence of friendship between the 
sexes. ^'Platonic love," as it is called, has been 
so often the object of ridicule, that one dares not 
now utter its name, except with a half sneer. Yet 
what can be more beautiful, more elevating, than 
the true doctrine of the divine Plato — of him 
who was the purest and noblest of that glorious 
company of truth-seekers, the ancient philoso- 



16 Thoughts of a Silent Man, 

phers — of him who taught that ^^ Beauty is but 
the reflected glory of Virtue, and Love only the 
yearning of the Soul after that perfection of which 
Deity is the ideal t3^pe." In love, as it ordinarily 
exists, there is jealousy and exactingness, or at 
least the taint, slight though it may be, of sexual 
emotions. In Platonic love or friendship, uniting, 
as it does, warmth and purity, claiming mutual 
recognition while it denies not separate affinities, 
the cravings of the soul are fully satisfied. 

The terrible sense of human nature's degrada- 
tion which always attends the success of mere 
passion, and often waits upon the tenderest af- 
fection with which passion mingles, is unknown 
in such a union. There can be no enduring af- 
fection which has not among its primordial ele- 
ments much of this holy friendship, but on the 
contrary, such friendship may exist, and go on 
advancing in fervor and strength, without adopt- 
ing a single constituent of what the world calls 
Love. Yet it is only the higher order of minds 
which can recognize this beautiful form of human 
tenderness. To a low nature physical laws seem 
so much stronger than spiritual bonds, that a love 
which rises superior to all grosser modes of ex- 
pression is as far beyond their comprehension as 
it is above their consciousness. Not that I would 
assert '^ there is no sex in genius" ; there is sex as 
strongly marked in mental as in physical organi- 



Thoughts of a Silent Man. 17 

zation ; but its existence refines instead of profan- 
ing the worship of truth and love. 

The happiness of men and women of genius has 
rarely been found in the sentiment of love, but 
it has often grown up quietly and surely beneath 
the fostering care of friendship. Genius rarely 
chooses wisely for itself in the first outgoings of 
its affections. It seeks the qualities which are 
wanting in its own being ; and, finding these, it 
fancies that all other qualities essential to harmo- 
nious combinations exist with them. 

Oh, ask not, hope not thou too mnch 

Of sympathy below ; 
Few are the hearts whence kindred streams 

At the same touch will flow. 

This is the usual result of its experience. It 
clothes some mere human creature with its own 
beautiful ideality, and when 

Charm by charm unwinds 
That robes its idol, 

it feels that not only was the object of its worship 
a false divinity, but that even the religion of its 
own deep heart is a weakness and an error. Of 
poets this is precisely true. Few or none have 
found peace in the sanctuary of their hearts while 
the altar blazed before the image of love. Yet 
how many have been blessed when they learned to 



18 Thoughts of a Silent Man. 

weave their votive garlands only for the shrine of 
friendship. Whenever any exposition of the real 
heart of man is brought before the public eye, 
there is invariably a cry raised of the ^^ wickedness 
of human nature/' '^innate depravity/' "immoral 
tendencies/' and the thousand watchwords people 
whose consciences are apt to slumber think it 
necessary to repeat for the awakening of their 
neighbors, who in all probability need no such 
rousing. The " Correspondence between Burns and 
Clarinda" was precisely one of those expositions; 
nine tenths of its readers turned up their eyes in 
holy horror, and looked upon the man as a scape- 
grace, and the woman as a "very naughty woman." 
Yet why? There was earnestness of feeling and 
fervid expression, such as only a poet could utter, 
or a congenial nature understand ; but where was 
a single passage which could justify the charge of 
immorality? Clarinda was a woman of refined 
mind, delicate tastes, and strong affections; her 
husband had ill-treated and abandoned her. Full 
of unappreciated tenderness of nature, and of un- 
appropriated sympathies, she had been for years 
worse than widowed in heart, when she acciden- 
tally met with Burns. What was more natural 
than that he — a being whose heart, like a full 
cup held by an unsteady hand, always trembled 
over at a breath — should have recognized a kin- 
dred nature? What more likely than that a 



Thoughts of a Silent Man. 19 

woman whose power of loving even cruelty 
could not crush out should have found a passing 
joy in this pure poetic sympathy? Burns had 
been wild and wayward — 

His pulse's maddening play 

Wild sent him pleasure's devious way, 

By passion driven. 
And yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 

He was his own true interpreter in these lines. 
The struggle of his soul after something more true 
than the coarseness of peasant life, or the cold con- 
ventionalism of high society, together with the 
fierce strivings of a strong physical nature, led him 
into many an error. But who that reads his ex- 
quisite songs can doubt his many glimpses of that 
higher life after which genius so vainly soars % 

He who cannot see in Burns's intercourse with 
Clarinda one of those ^^ better moments ^' in his 
life is, I think, to be pitied for the obtuseness of 
his perception. Shame on the man who believes 
that a feeling like this could not exist without 
wrong ! Does he believe that only the marriage 
tie can sanctify such an affection ? Alas ! seldom 
does such an affection sanctify the church's bond. 

Passion, prudence, pride, and a thousand similar 
motives may make men marry, and then the power 
of habit and a strong sense of duty assimilate 



20 TJiougJits of a Silent Man. 

them to their companions through life. But rarely 
indeed does this mystic recognition of soul pre- 
cede, or accompany, the outward and visible bond 
of marriage. Men look not enough into their own 
natures. They know not the necessity of such a 
recognition, until, perhaps, in after life, when the 
mysteries of life have been revealed to them 
through suffering. Like Alciphron, the Epicurean, 
they go through the Egyptian darkness and mys- 
teries of sorrow and sin, in search of that truth 
whose symbol is light. That this mystic recog- 
nition exists, I can no more doubt than I can 
disbelieve the existence of the subtle power of 
magnetism. But it cannot be theorized upon 
even by such a mind as Swedenborg's. There will 
never be a system of sympathetic emotions which 
will satisfy those who are susceptible to their in- 
fluence ; and to those who are insensible to them, 
all attempts to classify such impalpabilities must 
seem absurd. Neither can be materialized, as the 
mesmerisers of the present day would fain assert. 
It is purely a spiritualism — a link in the chain 
which binds the soul to its dim remembrances of 
a preexistence. Society has made certain wise and 
good laws for the maintenance of order. A high 
nature will not offend against these laws; but 
neither will it allow a narrow interpretation of 
them to destroy all the elemental purity of the 
soul. God has given us wiser and better laws, 



Thoughts of a Silent Man, 21 

which find a ready acceptance in the souls of his 
true children. 

The laws uttered amid the thunders of Sinai are 
sufficiently comprehensive — they denounce every 
sin which can make man blush before his Maker, 
and he who breaks none of these will certainly 
never offend against society. I am no believer in 
perfect sympathy, — that is reserved to be one of 
the joys of heaven, — but I believe in approaches 
to it, as firmly as I do in decided antipathies. 
And therefore, as I can understand how Burns 
might have hated an enemy without seeking to 
murder him, so I can easily comprehend how he 
might have loved Clarinda deeply and fondly, 
without degrading her by illicit passion. 




€{)oug][)t^ of a .-Silent ^an* 

No. 4. 




N a foregoing paper I spoke of sympathy 
as existent between kindred souls, in a 
much more perfect state than the world 
was willing to allow. The recently 
published correspondence between Schiller and 
Goethe affords the most beautiful exposition of 
this spiritual recognition that the annals of literal 
ture have ever recorded. Literary friendships, as 
they are called, are too often mere leagues growing 
out of community of interests, or attachments 
formed from the necessity of insatiate vanity. 
Inferior minds sometimes make themselves essen- 
tial to superior ones, by ministering to unsus- 
pected weakness ; and a man willing to play the 
jackal will rarely fail to find a lion to wait upon. 
A connection of this kind deserves not the name 
of friendship ; yet the world never discriminates, 
and when the tie of mutual interest is severed be- 



TJioiigJits of a Silent Man. 23 

tween two such pseudo-friends, commonplace peo- 
ple exclaim at the instability of men of genius. 
No one can read the correspondence of the two 
minds to whom I have alluded without feeling 
sensible of the nobler bond of union which true 
sympathy alone can weave, while the very sudden- 
ness of the recognition between them is the best 
proof of its genuineness. 

Schiller had occasion to ask the literary aid of 
Goethe in behalf of a new periodical, and accord- 
ingly indites a letter of formal respect, filled with 
the most reverential appreciation of Goethe's 
Awakism, yet containing not a single word of 
flattery or servility. Goethe returns a frank and 
hearty response, giving not a mere assent to 
Schiller's proposition, but professing the genial 
grasp of mental compa^nionship. In less than two 
months we find Schiller opening his heart to his 
new friend with all the confidingness of a woman. 
How fearlessly aud unjealously does he disclose 
the benefits he has derived from his recently 
formed attachment! 

^' On much about which I could not obtain har- 
mony with myself, the contemplation of your mind 
(for thus I must call the full impression of your 
ideas upon me) has kindled a new light. I needed 
the object — the body to many speculative ideas, 
and you have put me on the track of it." Mark 
Goethe's somewhat oracular reply. "Pure enjoy- 



24 Thoughts of a Silent Man. 

ment and real benefits can only be reciprocal, and 
it will give me pleasure to nnfold to you at leisure 
what my intercourse with you has done for me — 
how I, too, regard it as an epoch in my existence, 
and how content I am to have gone on my way 
without particular encouragements, as it now ap- 
pears as if we, after so unexpected a meeting, are 
to proceed forward together. I have always prized 
the honest and rare earnestness visible in all you 
have done and written. All that relates to me, and 
is in me, I will gladly impart. For as I feel very 
sensibly that my undertaking far exceeds the mea- 
sure of the faculties of one earthly life, I would 
wish to repose much with you, and thereby give it 
not only endurance but vitality." 

Now there may be something approaching to too 
much self-reliance in the one, and perhaps too lit- 
tle self-appreciation in the other ; but they both 
write from genuine feeling. There is no courtly 
flattery in the younger bard, no gratified vanity in 
the crowned poet. There never was a more genial 
yielding up of the soul to sudden and secret sym- 
pathy. There was no measured routine of civili- 
ties to be trodden before they could join hands at 
the shrine of friendship. ^^ However strong," says 
Schiller, ^' has been my desire to enter into closer 
relation with you than is possible between the 
spirit of a writer and his most attentive reader, 
yet I now perceive clearly that the different paths 



Thoughts of a Silent Man. 25 

ill wliich you and I moved could not have brought 
us together with advantage sooner than just at 
this time. But now I can hope that we shall travel 
together the rest of the way, and with greater 
profit, inasmuch as the last travelers who join 
company have always the most to say to one 
another." When we regard the character of the 
men, and the position they occupied in the world 
of letters, the picture of a pure and beautiful lit- 
erary friendship becomes complete, and we turn 
with a feeling of refreshment from the cold, hard, 
narrow selflsms of society to the rich development 
of soul in such a union. 

Their correspondence, which lasted ten years, 
and closed only with the death of Schiller, is like 
a many-sided mirror, reflecting every object that 
passes before it, in every variety of light and 
shade ; while the pure, clear atmosphere in which 
such souls live, and move, and have their being, 
gives almost magical distinctness to each image. 
No breath of selfishness or distrust ever rests for 
an instant on its bright surface. The glimpse 
which it affords us of Goethe's magnificent vanity 
(for he was a man who made even his weakness 
almost sublime) seems necessary to the proper il- 
lustration of Schiller's exquisite humility; and 
the hierarch of German literature never appears 
in so amiable an aspect as when cordially accept- 
ing and adopting his friend's close and quick- 



26 Thoughts of a Silent Man. 

sighted criticisms. Yet as in my former paper I 
ventured to assert that such sympathy could only 
grow to perfectness in persons of opposite sex, so 
now I dare affirm that this very correspondence is 
a proof of my theory. Genius assimilates though 
it does not confound sex, and while it gives some- 
thing of manly strength to woman, it always im- 
parts much feminality of perfection and feeling to 
man, especially if it exists with a delicately organ- 
ized physical structure. Goethe, with his robust 
physique, his wide perceptive faculties, his enter- 
prise, his towering independence of soul, his easy, 
graceful, yet despotic exe'rcise of mental domina- 
tion, affords a perfect contrast to Schiller, who 
was feeble in health, self-distrustful, eminently 
tender in his imaginativeness, and full of up-look- 
ing reliance upon the stronger spirit of his friend. 
Had they both possessed only strongly marked 
masculine traits of character, their union could 
never have been so perfect. Now it has some of the 
best characteristics of Platonic affection. Goethe 
was the strong man, self-dependent, self-subsistent, 
yet needing companionship ; Schiller was the ten- 
der, womanish nature, strong in principle, and 
perhaps with a latent power of self-reliance, but 
happier and better in its gentle dependence on a 
bolder nature. Advice, counsel, dictation, sugges- 
tion, amid a sort of watchful guardianship, these 
are Goethe's duties; deference, devotion, nay. 



TJwughfs of a Silent Man. 27 

the very outward ministry for which women seem 
so essentially fitted, come from Schiller. It is 
Schiller who sends the frequent box of biscuits — 
Goethe now and then furnishes his friend a fish, 
snared in the free waters, but the remembrance of 
household tastes comes from the womanlike affec- 
tion of the gentler spirit. 

This is no mere fanciful speculation. Perfect 
similarity is not sympathy; each must find in the 
other what is wanting in itself. There need be no 
inferiority in mind, yet there may be differences in 
mental and moral qualities. Men judge of their 
own sex through their consciousness, and they 
judge of women through their imagination. Both 
faculties may be erring guides, but the latter is 
more likely to be right than the former, since it 
usually gives a much more exalted view of human 
nature. The love of a high-souled man is one of 
the noblest, most unselfish, and loftiest feelings of 
which humanity is capable. The love of woman, 
even of the most gentle as well as of the highest 
nature, is exacting, for even as she is willing to 
give all, so she is not content with less than the 
sacrifice of all things to her. Considerateness, 
tenderness, the entire devotion of a life, are but as 
grains of incense in her eyes. She would fain give 
as much as she could, and therefore nothing can 
be offered which her love does not deserve. She 
may be humble in all things else, but she is al- 



28 Thoughts of a Silent Man. 

ways appreciating toward her own affections, and 
hence her utter unreasonableness in all love af- 
fairs. But her friendship is another thing. All 
the superiority which man's stronger nature gives 
him over her in love, her greater purity affords 
her over him in friendship. Nowhere is there 
more devotion, more disinterestedness, more ready 
self-sacrifice, than in woman's friendship ; no- 
where more teasing, annoying, heart-stirring pet- 
tiness of exaction than in her love ; and a man 
who w^ould have full appreciation of woman's 
nature, as well as full enjoyment of her sweet 
presence, must be her dearest friend, but never 
her devoted lover. 




Cljoiigljt.i^ of a Silent ^an» 

No. 5. 



| ?^^^ HE desire, common to all men who can- 
^JvS Stu not originate, of looking into the in- 
^9l ^-3$ most nature of men of genius (the 
Ci^:^^ '^ seers and makers," as they were 
styled in the older tongue), prevails in me, I con- 
fess, with full power. Hence it was that I found 
myself turning from Goethe's letters to Schiller, 
where the great man wears the graceful disha- 
bille of social friendship, to the picture of the 
same mind in the half dress which it exhibits in 
^^Der Brief wechsel mit einem Kinde." Nothing 
can be in greater contrast than the same individ- 
ual under the two different aspects. In his letters 
to Schiller, Goethe is frank, cordial, and self-dis- 
closing, fully conscious that he is an acknowledged 
dictator, and therefore laying aside all outward 
emblems of power, while he meets Schiller on the 
broad ground of community of feeling and opin- 

29 



30 TJwiigJits of a Silent Man. 

ion. He does not elevate Scliiller to an equality 
with himself, bnt descends one step from his cano- 
pied dais to meet him, and this he does so grace- 
fully that one scarcely notices the kingly conde- 
scension of the act. The fact was that Schiller 
won G-oethe's respect by his manliness, his truth, 
and his genius, while he secured his affection by the 
unconscious development of his tender and loving 
nature. Yet to gain such a regard from Goethe, 
it was necessary first to command his respect, and 
this no woman ever succeeded in obtaining. From 
his earliest youth, Goethe had been as remarkable 
for his beauty of person as for his powers of mind. 
Of course he was eminently attractive to women. 
His wonderful mind captivated her who could 
only be approached through the intellect, his no- 
ble and commanding figure won the admiration of 
her who had an eye only for physical beauty, and 
his delicate and refined sentiment was irresistible 
to her who needed ideal ministry. From his boy- 
hood, therefore, he had been a favorite with the 
sex, and we need scarcely add that the very wor- 
ship he received diminished his respect for the 
worshipers. A man may be made vain by the 
extravagant admiration of women, but it never in- 
spires him with self-respect. He learns to doubt, 
if not its genuineness, at least its discrimina- 
tion, and when he finds women governed, as they 
so usually are, in their likings and dislikings by 



TJwughts of a Silent Man. 31 

whim, lie begins to distrust the very possession 
of those qualities to which he is indebted for their 
approbation. Goethe loved to be flattered, and 
courted, and idolized by women, but he cared lit- 
tle for their opinions, except as they might influ- 
ence stronger minds. He looked to his own sex 
for appreciation. The column erected to his fame 
might be wreathed with flowers by gentle hands, 
but he expected it to be built by the strong arm 
of man. 

In his " Correspondence with a Child ^' (a child, 
by the way, of twenty years), which commenced a 
year or two after Schiller's death, Goethe shows 
himself as having thoroughly developed the self- 
ism that in very early life had characterized his 
first love-passage. When he first met Bettina 
von Arnim, he had already passed his sixtieth 
year, his fame was established on a sure basis, and 
his mine of sentiment, though not exhausted, yet 
had been so fully worked in real life, as well as for 
the purposes of poetry, that there were no new 
veins of ore to be discovered. Bettina possessed 
great talent, together with a temperament which, 
if associated with genius, would have produced 
grand results, but which, being connected with the 
perceptive instead of the inventive faculty, only 
sufficed to fill her with restless eothusiasm and an 
uneasy sense of unappropriated power. Her love 
for G-oethe, about which so much outcry has been 



32 Thoughts of a Silent Man. 

made, was a very harmless fantasy, growing out 
of a girlish admiration of the poet, and afterward 
fostered by the vanity of both. That it was the 
true sentiment of love is too absurd for belief, 
and that it was the effervescence of passion is 
worse than absurd. It would require an exceed- 
ingly spiritualized imagination to exalt Bettina's 
girlishness into the utterance of that soul-born 
sympathy which links one with heaven ; and at 
the same time, none but a fancy nurtured on the 
loathly food of sensualism could discover aught 
of evil in the exaggerated sentiments she ex- 
pressed. Flattered by the privilege of familiar 
correspondence with the ruler of German litera- 
ture, happy in his half-constrained fondness to- 
ward her^ proud of being the pet and plaything of 
the lion, Bettina appears to have given herself 
up to the pleasurable excitement without a single 
fear, or a moment's calculation. She seems to 
have remained standing on the threshold of wo- 
manhood, unwilling to turn her back on the irre- 
sponsible enjoyments of childhood, yet occasion- 
ally glancing, half yearningly, toward the veiled 
shrine within the temple. If the hand of Goethe 
sometimes lifted that veil, it was only to afford a 
momentary glimpse of the flame which was there 
burning, and the girl was more attracted to the 
flowers that grew around the porch than to the 
mystic worship of the inner shrine. In order to 



Thoughts of a Silent Man. 33 

judge fairly of Bettina, we must take into view 
the peculiarities of the society in which she lived. 
In England, where conventionalism forms the 
strongest of all bonds, she would have been re- 
garded as a mad woman. In our own country, 
where so much freedom of inclination exists 
among her sex, she would probably have discov- 
ered much earlier that she was no longer a child, 
and the affair would have had more earnestness 
and less unconsciousness. But in Germany, ever 
since the days of '' Werther" and '^Elective Affin- 
ities," such things are part of the social system. 
Their philosophers, as well as their poets, have 
taught the jjeople that impressions may be re- 
garded as precepts, and consequently a want of 
enthusiasm or sensibility is considered by them 
almost as an immorality. "We are content with a 
man if he possesses a strong moral sense, but the 
Germans demand also that he shall have an in- 
dwelling love for the good as for the beautiful, a 
quick perception of its presence in outward things, 
and an instant recognition of its power, notwith- 
standing the oppression of circumstances. I, for 
one, am not disposed to blame them; but unfortu- 
nately, this extreme susceptibility of character 
makes them attach infinite importance to the 
slightest shades of sentiment, and as proofs of the 
existence of a feeling, they feel bound to express 
its every gradation. The perfect development of 



34 Thoughts of a Silent Man. 

a sentiment is not sufficient in their view ; they 
must see the process by which the result has been 
obtained. They are never content with the ''piled 
up agony '^ — they want to see the agglomera- 
tion of each individual pang. This microscopic 
habit of looking into hearts is peculiarly German^ 
and of course gives rise to a world of affectation. 
True feeling shrinks ever from the scalpel of 
analysis, and an emotion which will bear dissec- 
tion has certainly lost vitality. Yet in a country 
where sensibility is regarded as eminently a vir- 
tue, it will be as certainly simulated as will be cold- 
ness and prudery among a people who claim to be 
moral in proportion as they are unfeeling. Not 
only this, but where it is not feigned and really 
exists, it will be heightened by fictitious means. 
If susceptibility be a virtue, then increased suscep- 
tibility is increased morality, and what would be 
elsewhere regarded as an indiscretion in Bettina 
is only an evidence of her acute sensibility, and 
of course of her elevation of character. 

Almost all highly civilized communities regard 
the repression of sensibility as a moral duty ; the 
Germans alone consider its constant exercise as the 
strongest test of true virtue; and there is as much 
evil in the code which forces its suppression, as 
in that which inculcates its exposition. We can 
make direct rules of conduct based upon the im- 
mutable laws of duty to God and justice to man, 



Thoiighfs of a Silent Man. 35 

but we can make no such regulation for the emo- 
tions. We have no right to make sensibility a 
duty. To some few it may be an unconditional 
privilege — to many it is a penance, willingly en- 
dured for the sake of some concomitant blessing 
— to most of us it is a clinging curse. The dry, 
hard, unsympathizing individual, who is virtuous 
from calculation, and treads his narrow path with- 
out ever looking down upon the flowers beneath 
his feet, or upward to the stars above his head, 
may often perform his duties in life better than 
the tender, susceptible being, who is ever stepping 
aside in kindness, or at least forgetting to keep a 
steady eye on the distant goal. If the world were 
made up of persons who think and feel, rather 
than act (and such are persons of susceptibility), 
how many more projects of good would be con- 
ceived, but how few would ever be accomplished ! 
Grod be praised that sensibility is not a duty. 
The curse would be too heavy for frail humanity 
if we had all been called to endure the burden of 
sensibility as well as the weight of labor. We are 
doomed to eat our bread in the sweat of our brow 
not in the sweat of our hearts ; and how compara- 
tively merciful is the dispensation, those only 
know who have felt the double curse of a grief- 
worn spirit in a toil-worn frame. Yet while we 
regard Bettina as only very German in her girl- 
ishness, we have less respect for the sexagenarian 



36 Thoughts of a Silent Man. 

coquetry of Goethe. He evidently likes the pas- 
sionate tone of her letters, he rather encourages 
her little petulant jealousies. Sometimes he checks 
her vehemence, but in such a manner that he 
approves, even while he seems to chide. Some- 
times he praises her descriptive powers, some- 
times sends her back her own sentiments em- 
balmed in his verse, and sometimes calls forth 
all the vividness and warmth of devotion by his 
eloquent appreciation. Had this affection grown 
up when Groethe was twenty years younger, it 
would have been numbered among the many sim- 
ilar testimonies to his attractiveness which he 
was always proud to remember. But coming, as 
it did, when he had already attained to old age, it 
had an importance in his eyes which called forth 
especial indulgence. 

The man whom Ninon honored with her favors 
after she had counted her eightieth year would 
probably have been less fortunate had he been her 
lover forty years earlier. Compared with Goethe, 
Bettina was indeed a child, but the poet had not 
read the human heart in vain, and he well knew 
the probable result of such a waste of devotion. 
The danger was not to virtue, not to good name — 
it was the heart's unsullied purity that was risked. 
There was no outward wrong, no sacrifice of duty; 
but was it nothing to accept the first outpourings 
of tenderness; nothing to have awakened the first 



TJioughts of a Silent Man. 37 

blush of the soul ; nothing to have stolen the 
dewy freshness of the heart's first-fruits? How 
easy it would have been for Goethe to have di- 
rected aright all the overflowing fullness of Bet- 
tina's nature ; to have guided her enthusiasm, 
repressed her passionateness, weeded out her jea- 
lousy, and, in short, to have raised her above the 
blind idolatry which made her bow down before 
the priest, instead of worshiping the divinity at 
whose shrine he ministered ! But the fact was 
that, in spite of all his greatness of mind, Goethe 
was fully sensible of the pleasures of gratified 
vanity. He valued Bettina's adoration as any 
other man would have done, and, perhaps, in 
expecting him to have repelled the votary who 
brought such costly gifts, we ask more stoic 
virtue than falls to the lot of even the highest 
humanity. 

Nothing is more evident in this singular corre- 
spondence than the difference between the hopeful 
fervor of youth and the back-looking yearning of 
age. It is the same difference as that which exists 
between the newly gathered blossom, and the spec- 
tral rose which the chemist's almost magical skill 
can bring out from the flower. Goethe could call 
up the faded and ghastly image from the crucible 
of memory, but the fresh garland which Bettina 
offered must be consumed in the mystic process. 




I^Dtion^ about :^u^ic* 



y APPENING to find myself, a few even- 
ings since, in the midst of a circle of 
people who were discussing the merits 
^^^W^^ of a certain celebrated pianist, I was 
struck with the peculiar knowingness of their 
remarks. None were mere amateurs — all ap- 
peared to be decided connoisseurs in music; and 
as many of them were, to my knowledge, by no 
means remarkably well informed in other respects, 
my curiosity was a little excited as to the means 
by which this skill in musical criticism had been 
obtained. 

According to my usual habit, I listened instead 
of sharing in the conversation ; and nothing en- 
ables one so soon to see through the mist of super- 
ficiality as such quiet observation. I found that 
each one of the speakers had some especial favo- 
rite among professional musicians, some ^' magnus 
Apollo," in whose cast-off ideas he was content 



Notions ahout Music. 39 

to array his own mind, and whose technicalities 
were preferred to original, but less scientific, ex- 
pressions of a genuine love for music. The 
fashion of the day is not to be music-mad, but 
music-wise. When the Italian opera was first in- 
troduced by that glorious Garcia troupe, the like 
of which has never been seen since in our country, 
everybody who aspired to be anybody was ex- 
pected to*^ profess the most enthusiastic love for 
this lofty style of music. 

To those whose taste had been formed after the 
classic models, or to those with sufacient delicacy 
of ear to detect the sentiment through the sound, 
this was an easy task ; but to most of our busy, 
bustling, money-making aspirants after fortune 
and fashion, it was the severest tax they had ever 
been called upon to pay. But the adaptability of 
the American character is proverbial, and this 
graft of foreign taste, which required nearly a 
century to attain a vigorous growth in England's 
soil, in less than five years flourished among us 
like an indigenous production. 

We are called a money-loving people, a specu- 
lating people, and a thousand other names equally 
significant of the " almighty dollar "; but the recent 
railway doings in John Bull's insular manufac- 
turing workshop, and the late glorification in 
Britain of a man whose only claim to public con- 
sideration is his success in making a rapid fortune, 



40 Notions about Music. 

prevent us from claiming any of these titles so 
exclusively as to make them tests of identity. If 
our '' cousin of England " (instead of making our 
pseudo-national portrait a caricature of his own 
respectable matter-of-fact physiognomy) would so 
far recognize our difference of national feature 
from his own, as to see that both peoples bear 
more resemblance to the Englishman of the days 
of Elizabeth than they do to each other, he would 
discover our strong impressibility to Art; and 
detect the most striking sign of departure in dis- 
position from the modern English stock in our 
nascent devotion to music! We are emphati- 
cally a musical people — yes, I say emphatically; 
for the German fervor and Italian impressibility 
which are blended in the American character give 
us both the susceptibility to musical sounds and 
the craving for musical utterance which, with long 
cultivation, has brought the art to high perfection 
among the countrymen of Mozart and Rossini. 
Certain clever but not very philosophical writers 
have recently made themselves merry with the first- 
fruits of this national predisposition, as it has dis- 
played itself in the popularity of "the negro 
melodies " of the South. Let no one presume to 
smile scornfully at such humble examples of origi- 
nality in so lofty an art. The beginnings of all 
nationality must be rude and unpolished, because, 
in order to be nationalities, they must begin with 



Notions ahout Music. 41 

the people, not with the gentry, of a country. 
Our scholars form their tastes and educate their 
perceptions after Old World models; our populace 
display the influences of untutored nature. In all 
great cities we must necessarily have that artifi- 
cial kind of existence which soon levels down 
originality. The rich will exhibit European re- 
finement, and carefully repress all nationality as 
vulgar, while the poor, recruited as their ranks con- 
tinually are by paupers from abroad, will differ 
little from their kindred classes on the other side 
of the water. Yet even here we may see this 
strong musical taste filling the concert-room, and 
gathering a crowd around some peripatetic min- 
strel. It is only in Atlantic cities that this bor- 
rowed refinement prevails. In the wide tracts of 
our western country, in the cities which have 
sprung up, like Aladdin's palace, in the midst of 
trackless forests or almost illimitable prairies, we 
find, even amid the growing desire for luxury 
which follows the bountiful supply of the neces- 
saries of life, a degree of originality unknown in 
older settlements. The pioneer of civilization is 
generally a sturdy, reckless woodsman, full of ex- 
pedients, and gifted with a certain daredevil cheer- 
fulness that carries him through all difficulties and 
dangers. The children of such a man must neces- 
sarily inherit much of his temperament, for all 
strong natures impress themselves deeply upon 



42 Notions about Music. 

their offspring. Those things which were but half- 
discovered tastes and tendencies in him, repressed, 
perhaps, by the necessities of every-day life, will 
in them be developed into talents and powers. 
Untrammeled by any knowledge of classic models, 
unfettered by that awe of the intellectual giants 
whose fame overshadows the scholastic world, they 
utter themselves in a language coarse, strong, and 
original. 

They become poets in soul, though not in verbal 
expression ; for the language of poetry must neces- 
sarily have a certain artificiality, arising out of 
its recurring rhythm and cadence, which involves 
the need of a degree of cultivation ; and hence it 
is that our most national efforts of sculpture, and 
our most original specimens of melody, are the 
growth of our western forests. It is on account of 
their conformity to the rules of counterpoint, or 
their scientific combinations of harmony and mel- 
ody, that the national airs of any country have 
obtained their popularity. In point of real music, 
the songs of the boatmen on our great western 
rivers exceed the celebrated Ranz des Vaches, or 
even the Rhine song ; while the monotonous 
chanting of the Neapolitan barcarole differs little 
in merit from the melodies with which our South- 
ern negroes beguile their labors in the cotton-field. 
We have no great national composers, and prob- 
ably never shall have; for a musician could 



Notions about Music. 43 

scarcely attain sufficient skill in his art without 
imbibing at the same time those anti-national 
ideas, and that reliance upon transatlantic taste, 
which will make him only an imitator of some 
German or Italian model. But we have the 
materials and the taste, if w^e only had the con- 
rage, for an entirely new school of music. It is 
with nations as with individuals j a strongly sel- 
fish person never could have a strong and enthusi- 
astic love for music, although such an one might 
become a skilful and accomplished musician ; and 
thus a nation whose self-concentration is pro 
verbial can never expect to produce great musical 
composers. We may look to Shaksperian England 
for our masterpieces in literature, if we will ; we 
may look to the England of Watt, Arkwright, and 
Davy for the most definite, if not the most inge- 
nious, in science. But music, it must be remem- 
bered, is art, science, and inspiration combined ; 
and it requires not less the soul to feel, and the 
heart to respond, than it does the brain to con- 
ceive its dainty and subtle inventions*! The adipose 
of pride that wraps the mechanical nerves of an 
Englishman, no less than the wondrous self-com- 
placency of those brave, ingenious, and sturdy 
islanders (the finest artificial race, perhaps, that 
the world has ever seen, but at the same time the 
most artificial), utterly prevents his freely giving 
himself up to the power of music. A man who 



44 Notions about Music. 

sympathizes so little with other men among the 
nations, how can he sympathize with a floating 
sound! The abandon with which his continental 
brethren yield themselves to the enthusiasm of the 
moment is incompatible with his sense of dignity ; 
and hence music, however suggestive, is to him 
like a walk through pleasure-grounds guarded by 
man-traps and spring-guns — he is continually on 
the lookout lest he shoukl be awkwardly caught. 
We, on the contrary, rather pique ourselves on a 
certain degree of extravagance in feeling — a sort 
of half -comic, half-earnest exaggeration of senti- 
ment, apparently arising from a kind of bragga- 
docio spirit, but in reality growing out of an 
awkward consciousness of real emotion. We 
have not yet attained to that point of refinement 
where civilization and savage life meet, closing the 
circle on the one part with stoical indifference, 
and on the other with fashionable nonchalance. 
We have enterprise, enthusiasm, depth of feeling, 
liveliness of imagination, and quickness of per- 
ception. We have around us the grand harmo- 
nies which nature produces to the eye, and there 
are as yet few of the discords of social life (those in- 
congruities which spring from overgrown wealth 
and squalid poverty) to mar the music of our 
rapid onward march. The clashings of political 
excitement are to us like the trumpet-call of 



Notions about Music. 45 

gatheriDg armies; while the tones of domestic 
peace are ever sounding in our ears like 

That sweetest of all melodies — the voice 
Of song o'er mooulit waters. 

In short, we have all the materials for a na- 
tional music ; and it is to be hoped that the time 
will come when an American composer may be 
found, who to artistic skill shall unite a full per- 
ception of the feeling which is the great first cause 
of music, and the suggestiveness which should be 
its highest aim. With the usual garrulity of age, 
I have traveled far from my original purpose, 
which was simply to show how much those lose 
who, not content with enjoying music, think it 
necessary to become technical, and fancy that 
^' they are nothing, if not critical." All persons of 
true feeling may enjoy good music through its 
suggestiveness, while only practical and theoreti- 
cal musicians are qualified to judge learnedly and 
scientifically of the merits of a composition. The 
botanist may pull a flower to pieces to lecture on 
its various parts, and a musician may dissect a 
thrilling melody in order to discover its mysteri- 
ous combinations of sweetness ; but he who loves 
flowers and music for their own sake needs no 
such scientific investigation to increase his en- 
joyment of their delights — albeit such investiga- 



46 



Motions ahout Music. 



tion alone can teach him the law of snch enjoy- 
ment. A thorough knowledge of music is a most 
desirable and noble gift ; but the mere smatter- 
ing which enables men to chatter like apes about 
an art which has power to fill the soul with the 
highest emotions cannot be too carefully eschewed. 




(©miii!^ anb it^ iSciuatb^* 




;HAT a glorious gift is that of eloquent 
utterance ! The laurels of the warrior 
are only achieved on the field of blood; 
the honors of the statesman depend on 
the fickle breath of the multitude ; but the author 
— the creator — he who in the seclusion of his 
closet can commune with the solemn majesty of 
truth, whose oracles he has been chosen to inter- 
pret ; he who can people the narrow limits of his 
solitary chamber with images of beauty ; he who 
amid the sands of worldliness has found the " dia- 
mond of the desert," while its sweet waters are 
welling up in all their freshness and purity — 
what a noble power is his ! And what a strange 
and mystic faculty is that which gives to ^' airy 
nothings " such shapes as make them seem, even 
to the coarse-minded worldling, like familiar 
friends ; which imparts to unsubstantial dreams a 

47 



48 Oenitis and its Bewards. 

visible and lifelike presence ; which invests the 
impalpable shadows of the brain with the attri- 
butes of humanity, and demands for these fairy 
creatures of the fancy our kindliest and warmest 
sympathy ! What a godlike gift is that which 
enables the lonely student to sway the minds of 
myriads on whom his eye may never rest with a 
glance of friendly recognition ; to move as if by 
one impulse the hearts of thousands ; to stir up 
high and holy feelings in bosoms which the com- 
merce of the world and the exigencies of life had 
chilled and hardened. Yet it is with the mind as 
with the body; the exercise of our physical ener- 
gies is delightful in proportion as it is the act of 
unfettered volition. The man who, in the sport- 
iveness of health and spirits, will go into the 
woodland and make the strokes of his ax ring 
through the forest aisles would find little pleasure 
i^ the same labor if necessity had driven him to 
become a hewer of wood. 

The well-trained dancer, whose lithe form moves 
to the voice of music as if she were but an em- 
bodiment of the spirit of harmony, feels none 
of the pure joy which once possessed her when, 
in the freedom of childish mirth, her dance was 
but the evidence of a lightsome heart. It is only 
when the will is left free to direct the faculties 
that we can derive full gratification from our con- 
sciousness of power; and if this be true of the 



Genms and its Bewards. 49 

body, — that mere machine which, from its earliest 
sentient moment, is submitted to restraint and sub- 
jection, — how much more is it true of the free and 
unchained mind. It matters not whether the fet- 
ters that are laid upon the soul be forged from the 
iron scepter of necessity, or wrought from the 
golden treasures of ambition ; still they are but 
chains, and he who would feel the true majesty 
of mental power must never have worn the badge 
of thraldom. It is not the triumph of satisfied 
ambition which affords the highest gratification 
to the truly noble-minded. Intellectual toil is its 
own exceeding great reward. The applause of 
the world may gladden the heart and quicken the 
pulse of the aspirant for fame, but the brightest 
crown that was ever laid on the brow of genius 
imparts no such thrill of joy as he felt in that de- 
licious moment when the consciousness of power 
first came upon him. It is this sense of power 
— this innate consciousness of hidden strength — 
which is his most valued guerdon ; and well would 
it be for him if the echo of worldly fame never 
resounded in the quiet, secluded chambers of his 
secret soul. Well would it be if no hand ever 
offered to his lips the cup of adulation, whose 
magic sweetness awakens a thirst no repeated 
draughts can slake. Well would it be if the voice 
of a clamorous multitude never mingled with the 
sweeter music of his own gentle fancies. Well 

4 



50 Genius and its Beivards. 

would it be if lie could always abide in tbe pure 
regions of elevated thought, leaving the mists 
and the darkness, the lightnings and tempests, 
of a lower world beneath his feet. Titian, living 
amid wealth and honors, and dying in the arms of 
a weeping monarch, presents to the eye of thought 
a far less noble picture than the poor, unfriended, 
humble Correggio, when, at the sight of some 
glorious works of art, the veil which had hidden 
his own resplendent genius was suddenly lifted 
from his eyes, and he exclaimed, in the ecstasy of 
an enlightened spirit, '^Anche son io pittore ! " — I, 
too, am a painter ! 

With the first knowledge of innate power to the 
mind of genius comes also the desire of benefiting 
humanity, and at that moment, when the fire 
which God has lighted within the soul burns up- 
ward with a steady light toward Heaven, while 
it diffuses its pure splendors on a darkened world 
around, at such a moment man is indeed but little 
lower than the angels. 

Could he keep his spirit to this pitch, 
He might be happy; 

but, alas ! the mists of earth rise up around 
him; the light is dimmed upon the altar; less 
holy gleams shoot athwart the growing dark- 
ness, and too often the fading flame of spiritual 



Genms and its Rewards. 51 

existence is rekindled at the bale-fires of the nether 
world. 

There is something fearful in the responsi- 
bility which attaches to the expression of human 
thought and feeling. ^' We may have done that 
yesterday/' says Madame de Stael, " which has 
colored our whole future life." Appalling as this 
idea is, the reflection that in some idle mood and in 
some uncounted moment, now gone past recall, we 
may have uttered that which has influenced the 
opinions, the feelings, perhaps the fate, of another, 
is even more terrific to the conscience. Who can- 
not remember some single word, some careless 
remark, which, coming from lips fraught with 
eloquence, or uttered from a heart filled with 
truth, has affected our early fortunes and perhaps 
our lifelong destiny! Who cannot look back 
upon some moment in life when the unconscious 
accents of another have withheld the foot which 
already pressed the verge of some frightful 
precipice ? Who cannot recall, in bitter anguish 
of spirit, some hour when the " voice of the 
charmer " has won the soul to evil influences and 
late remorse! If such things come within the 
experience of each one of us (and that they do 
no one can doubt), may not every human being, 
however humble, feel awed before the power of 
human expression ! Oh ! it is a fearful thing to 
pour out one's soul in eloquent utterance. Fear- 



52 Genius and its Rewards. 

fill, because it opens the inner sanctuary to the 
gaze of vulgar eyes ; fearful, because its oracular 
voice is rarely interpreted aright ; doubly fearful, 
because even its most truthful sayings may be of 
evil import to those who listen to its teachings. 
^^When the gifts of genius inspire those who 
know us not with the desire to love us, they are 
the richest blessings Heaven can bestow upon 
human nature." This is a woman's sentiment, 
but it is one to which every gifted soul will re- 
spond. I once heard it asserted by one who has 
but to look within himself to behold the rich- 
est elements of the good and grand most har- 
moniously commingled, that '' there is something 
essentially feminine in the mental character of 
a man of genius, while there are decidedly mas- 
culine traits in the intellectual developments of 
a gifted woman." The idea was at first start- 
ling, but it is undoubtedly true. The delicacy of 
perception, the refinement of thought, the ten- 
derness of fancy which mark the man of genius 
approach very nearly to the finest traits of wo- 
manly nature; while the vigor of thought and 
magnanimity of feeling which belong to an en- 
larged and occupied mind in the gentler sex are 
certainly borrowed from the stronger nature of 
man. There is an assimilation between them, 
which, while it does not prove the assertion that 



Genius and its Rewards. 53 

^^ there is no sex in genius/' goes far to establish 
a theory, and account for apparent incongruities. 
It is those very faculties, compelling each, as it 
were, to trench upon the privileges of the other, 
which involve and almost insure the social un- 
happiness of genius. How difficult is it for 
thought to fold its wings beside the household 
hearth, or brood with fostering care over the 
petty duties of life! How much more difficult for 
the delicate and sensitive nature to assert its 
manly strength, when every pulse is thrilling 
with refined emotion ! Yet the diligent culture 
of the affections, the unselfish devotion to social 
duties, may and do preserve to each its true 
nature. Hence it is that while others seek for 
palpable and tangible rewards, the children of 
genius find so much to prize in the distant and 
far-off affection which their gifts awaken in lov- 
ing and humble hearts. What can impart more 
pure delight than the consciousness that we have 
given consolation to the wretched ; that we have 
deepened the thrill of joy in the breast of the 
happy ; that we have elevated the thoughts of an 
awakened mind by the expression of unconscious 
sympathy ? 

How many hearts, aching with excess of feel- 
ing, have found vent for their fullness in those 
exquisite lines of the poet of nature — those lines 



54 Genius and its Uewards. 

which contain an embodiment of all the romance 
— I had almost said of all the poetry — of life : 

Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

How many have felt the wild surges of feeling 
heave with a calmer swell when they listened to 
the solemn music uttered by the great master of 
passion : 

Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer! 

Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love ! 

Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ? 

How many, ^' nel tempo dei dolci sospiri/' have 
echoed the strain of that passionate emotion 
which thrilled the heart of Petrarca when he ex- 
claimed : 

Benedetto sia '1 giorno, e '1 mese, e 1' anno, 
E la stagione, e '1 tempo, e 1' ora, e '1 punto, 
E '1 bel paese, e '1 loco ov' io fin giunto 
Da duo begl' oechi, che legato m' hanno. 

How many, while listening to the voice of na- 
ture's great high-priest, learn to love the gifted 
beings who have power to interpret the vague or- 
acles of God within their souls; how many would 
fain utter in nobler language the sentiment which 



Genius and its Retvards. 55 

dictated this grateful burst of feeling to one of 
our country's greatest bards : 



TO WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

My thanks are thine, most gifted one ! to thee 

I owe an hour of intellectual life, 

A sweet hour stolen from the noise, and strife, 
And turmoil of the world ; which, but to see, 
Or hear of from afar, is pain to me. 

I thank thee for the rich draught thou hast 
brought 

To lips that love the well-springs of pure thought 
Which from thy soul gush up so plenteously. 
The hymnings of thy prophet voice awake 

Those nobler impulses, that, hushed and still, 

Lie hidden in our hearts till some wild thrill 
Of spirit-life has power their chains to break ; 

Then from our long inglorious dream we start. 

As if an angel's tone had stirred the slumbering 
heart. 

It is true such thanks may come from one whose 
"name is writ in water" — from a mind which is 
only endowed with power to enjoy a music it never 
can create; yet surely it is pleasant to feel that 
we have imparted pure and intellectual gratifica- 
tion to one of God's creatures, however humble ; 
and that we have awakened, for one brief hour. 



56 Genius and its Rewards. 

the joy of inner life. Well may such things be 
prized^ for they are among the few earthly joys 
which cheer the heart of genius when the dark- 
ness of self-distrust gathers around him. The 
smile of Heaven may beam upon him with unfad- 
ing brightness, but he must tread an earthly path, 
and dangers and sorrows beset him on every side. 
They who are his daily companions are those who 
see not into the mysteries of life. They weigh 
him in the balance of worldly prudence, and he is 
found wanting; they watch his moods, and bring 
them up in judgment against him, as if every 
variation of a sentiment was a deviation from a 
moral principle ; they try him by tests from which 
even the enduring spirit of calculation would 
shrink; they stand afar off and then wonder that 
he is not of themselves ; they seek to despise that 
which they may not comprehend, and they re- 
ceive his teachings rather as the ravings of the 
Delphic Pythoness than as the solemn voice of a 
prophet. Weary and heartsick, how often does 
he pause on his lonely way ! how often does he 
faint in very heaviness of soul ! how often does he 
long to fold his weary pinion in the still chamber 
of death ! 

Yet comfort is still for him. The multitude 
may know him not ; the laurel may never wreathe 
his brow to guard it from the lightning which 
hallows even while it scathes ; yet will his clarion 



Genius and its Rewards. 57 

voice be heard afar off, and while those pause to 
catch its tones who have never listened to his 
household words, it will echo widely through the 
dim shadow of the future. His thoughts will find 
response in hearts that knew him not, and his 
memory will live, embalmed in sweetest fancies, 
when he shall have lain down like a weary child 
to sleep the dreamless sleep of death. His life 
will be one of fevered hope and chilling disap- 
pointment ; he will ever grasp after some un at- 
tained delight, for it is in vain yearnings after the 
spiritual that men utter the hymnings of their 
noblest nature; he will wander unsatisfied through 
a world which seems green and beautiful beneath 
every foot save his; he will drink of many a 
Circean cup, but his thirst will be still unslaked, 
his joy still untasted ! But '^ coraggio e pazienza " 
must be written upon his heart and upon his 
banner. Life has only its transient joys and 
sorrows, while his course is still onward and 
upward. He may be of those whom the world 
knows not, but while he guards the sacred flame 
within his bosom, he is not forsaken of Him who 
gave that spark of celestial fire. In his journey- 
ing across the sands of worldly care, he is guided 
as were the Israelites of old. When the day-star 
beams on high, and all around seems bright, his 
eye may see only a pillar of cloud ; but when all 
earthly light has departed, then does it beam forth 



58 Genius and its Rewards. 

a heaven-sent flame to direct his steps to a better 
land ! Let him never forget that his gifts are 
not his own. '^ Is not this great Babylon, that I 
havebnilt?" was the arrogant thought of him who 
became as the beast of the field. Others may be 
endowed with the power of gathering the trea- 
sures of worldliness 5 wealth may fall to the lot of 
some ; power may be the destiny of others 5 popu- 
lar applause may follow the steps of others ; but 
to him has been given a nobler faculty, and for a 
nobler aim. They are ^^ of the earth, earthy '' 5 
in the providence of God all these his creatures 
are needed to fulfil their mission, and verily they 
have their reward. But thou, child of genius, art 
chosen for a higher purpose. It is thy privilege 
to guard the sacred shield on whose safety de- 
pends the welfare of thy fellow-beings. Thou art 
chosen to watch over truth, to interpret the voice 
of conscience, to utter the oracles of love and wis- 
dom. No selfish dream must fill thy fancy ; the 
dark form of ambition must fling no shadow over 
the pure stream of thought within thy bosom. 

The world may sneer at the nobleness of soul it 
cannot imitate 5 friends may rebuke the nature 
they cannot comprehend ; even affection may be 
blind to the deep mysteries of a high and holy 
purpose of life ; but still faint not thou ! 

Like the fabled bird of Eden, it is only in up- 
ward flight that thy pinions give out their radiant 



Genius and its Rewards. 59 

hues of paradise ; thou wert not meant to fold thy 
wing above thy weary heart and rest on earth. 
To be poor in worldly goods, despised by the 
worldly-wise, half dreaded by the worldly-ambi- 
tious, and only half loved by those on whom thy 
best affections have been poured forth • such is 
thy earthly destiny, O genius ! 

Thou wilt give thyself out like incense to the 
wind, like music on the tempest. Yet rejoice thou 
in thy destiny. The incense may be borne afar 
off, but it will yet breathe sweetness upon some 
weary brow 5 the melody may be wasted on the 
blast, but some faint tones will reach and cheer a 
brother's sinking heart. 

Truly the gift of genius is a glorious one, even 
in its grief. The fruits which are given to its 
thirsting lip may be bitter to the taste, but they 
are plucked from the tree which is ^^ for the heal- 
ing of the nations." 





(fi.is^i^aii on Jtnicirican Hitcratutrc* 



^O much has been written on both sides 
of the Atlantic by the ablest pens on 
the subject of American literature that 
it seems presumptuous now to attempt 
its discussion, but the resources of our rapidly 
growing country, and the station which she holds 
among the nations of the earth, render it a topic 
of daily increasing importance to all who have 
any pretensions to patriotism or literary tastes. 
To form an idea of the science of a nation we 
must examine its books — to learn how to estimate 
its literature we need only make ourselves ac- 
quainted with its periodical press. If we take the 
most cursory view of the monthly, weekly, and 
daily journals which traverse our country from 
Georgia to Maine, we cannot fail to be struck by 
the variety of talent which they exhibit. 

The fugitive poetry which floats from paper to 
paper, read, admired, and then forgotten, is of a 

60 



Essay on American Literature. 61 

far higher order than that which made the repu- 
tation of many votaries of the mnses in the days 
of Queen Anne, and of the first two Georges. 
The slightly sketched tales and essays which are 
thrown into oblivion after they have afforded 
momentary amusement are many of them worthy 
of a Goldsmith or an Addison, but the very abun- 
dance of the article causes its value to be over- 
looked, and we look through a magazine as we 
might through a cabinet of gems where the rich- 
ness of the collection makes us too fastidious to 
pause over everything of less price than the 
diamond. 

The reproaches which have been cast upon 
America for her total neglect of the elegancies of 
life will never more be heard. The young nation 
has labored first to acquire the necessaries of 
life — industry has brought wealth, and she is now 
able to indulge in luxuries. We have our poets, 
our painters, our architects and sculptors, our 
writers and our readers, and while establishing 
institutions for the promotion of the fine arts, 
let us not forget the establishment of a national 
literature. There have heretofore been two grand 
obstacles in the way of such an establishment, 
viz., the want of literary patronage which neces- 
sarily involves a dearth of literary industry, and 
a strange fondness among our writers for foreign 
rather than American subjects of discussion. 



62 Essay on American Literature. 

The deficiency of patronage may be easily ex- 
plained. We are especially an active, industrious, 
commercial population, and the merchant who 
sits poring over his ledger, calculating the riches 
which are wafted by the four winds of Heaven 
into his coffers ; the settler who takes his ax on 
his shoulder and trudges off to the wilderness 
with the certainty of there building up his for- 
tune; even the farmer who, by his labor, wins a 
competence for his family, and obtains for them 
an estate rich in Nature's bounties — all look with 
contempt upon the inactive student. To them 
his habits seem those of confirmed indolence, for 
a man who takes up a book to amuse himself 
during his hour of relaxation from bodily labor 
can never be made to realize the intense and 
wasting toil of mental exertion. 

Literary patronage to such seems to be bestow- 
ing the price of industry upon indolence, and he 
who has courage enough to devote himself to 
learning and its usual attendant poverty is pitied 
by his friends, and ridiculed by the world, as one 
who has banished himself from communion with 
his fellows in pursuit of a vain shadow. He will 
find himself alone — there are no professedly lit- 
erary men in our country to form a class with 
which he may unite himself. Our professional 
men are the only ones who make any approach 
toward such a class, but even they are compelled 



Essay on American Literature. 63 

to active employment in their several duties, and 
have little time for classic lore, or the speculations 
of abstract truth. All useful labor can command 
a high price in America, but she is now only be- 
ginning to esteem intellectual pursuits as such, 
and years must elapse before our citizens can live 
as well by the exercise of their brain as by the 
work of their hands. The roads to wealth are so 
numerous, and so easily trodden, while the path of 
science is so rugged and unpromising, that it is 
not to be regarded as matter for surprise if onr 
youth are tempted rather by the glittering prizes 
that await them in the temple of Mammon than 
by the fadeless laurel wreath which lies on the 
shrine of learning. The influence of wealth they 
feel at every step of their progress in life — but 
time may bleach the dark brown locks, and disease 
furrow the lofty brow, before the laurel crown can 
be known to be unfading. A few gifted spirits 
may rise superior to the temptations of earthly 
aggrandizement, and struggle successfully against 
the tide of public opinion, but how few are they 
compared to the multitude who, after a few in- 
effectual attempts, either sink into oblivion, or 
cease their eiforts, and float with the current. 
We want literary patronage such as will enable 
men to live in comfort, if not in afluence, by the 
exercise of their intellectual as well as their phys- 
ical powers. We want such a spirit of liberality 



64 Essay on American Literature. 

among all classes of men as may enable them to 
regard the anthor with the same degree of con- 
sideration as is bestowed upon the lawyer or the 
physician. Then, and not till then, shall we have 
a literary class in society — a class willing to admit 
within its limits all who can show themselves 
worthy, and which demands no other qnalifica- 
tions than those of mental superiority. The pref- 
erence which too many of our writers have shown 
for traveling abroad in search of subjects for the 
exercise of their intellect may be attributed to 
the total absence of all independence of opinion 
among our critics. Until very recently a book 
written by an American was scarcely deemed 
worthy to come under the scalping-knife of criti- 
cism at home, and if written upon an American 
subject would have fallen lifeless from the press. 
Few have been found prepared to brave the un- 
equal conflict with public opinion, and many a fine 
writer, who might have been a glor}^ to our coun- 
try, has sunk into oblivion while our reading 
public has been insulted by the republication of 
myriads of trashy English novels, exaggerated in 
sentiment, bombastic in style, and false in deline- 
ation. I said few had been found, but America 
may well be proud of those few. Long before our 
eyes were opened to see the exhaustless mine of 
literary wealth which our country held within its 
bosom, Irving, Paulding, and, at a later period. 



Essay on American Literature. 65 

Cooper, coined some of its fine gold, and sent it 
forth to the world stamped with the impress of 
genius. 

The name of Irving will be loved while America 
exists. He has associated himself with our most 
intimate sympathies j he has learned the sources 
of our smiles and tears ; we have laughed with 
him until our eyes ran o'er with glee ; and we have 
wept with him until our tears fell like rain upon 
his page — how can we think of him then merely 
as the author? No, it is Irving the man, the com- 
panion, whom we love, even though our eyes 
may never have rested on his face. And who 
does not know Paulding — the keen satirist of 
foreign fopperies, the true-hearted American au- 
thor whose every thought has been for his coun- 
try? His pen has ever been employed in her 
service, whether he used its point to sting those 
who would undermine her strength by luxury, or 
its feather to paint her exquisite scenery, and the 
workings of human nature in the hearts of her 
sons. Cooper has done more good abroad than 
at home. His books were American; as such 
they were received with avidity in Europe, and 
though creatures such as he drew never existed 
in this or any other quarter of the world, still, as 
an American, he served as a power to open the 
way for others. Many noble names may now be 
found who are American in heart as well as in 

5 



66 Essay on American Literature. 

nativity. We have onr Bryant, whose sonl is filled 
with images of beauty, and whose words breathe 
the sweetness of the '^ Summer Wind." His muse 
was born amid American scenery, and though her 
eye has since marked the course of the rapid 
Rhine, yet she still loves the country of her birth. 
Halleck has followed no foreign leader in his 
flights of fancy. His feelings are the impulses of 
an American, and his satire leaves us only cause 
to regret that its local merit cannot be estimated 
properly across the broad Atlantic. How it irks 
the ear of an American when we hear the names, 
however honored, of the gifted of another land 
applied to our writers ! 

Who would condescend to call Miss Sedgewick 
the Edgeworth of our country? Whether her 
hand portrays the sweet Hope Leslie, the grace- 
ful Grace Campbell, the noble Maganesca, or the 
excellent Deborah, she is alike feminine, natural, 
and American. We can never consent to bestow 
on her the mantle which fell from the shoulders 
of another — she is one of our national glories — 
our Sedgewick. Nor would we bestow on Mrs. 
Sigourney the honored name borne by one whom 
all alike lament. Beside, the absurdity of classing 
as similar poetry of so different a style — whose 
only similitude is the occasional choice of sub- 
jects. We would have our gifted ones known by 
their own names — not as wearing a chaplet woven 



Essmj on American Literature. 67 

from the faded leaves dropped from others' gar- 
lands. Our country, however, is now fully awak- 
ened, and our literary aspirants have learned that 
their true ambition must ever be to acquire dis- 
tinction as national writers. The field w^hich lies 
before them is an immense one — for the painter 
of society who seeks to catch the manners of liv- 
ing as they arise, there never could be finer 
studies than are to be found in our own land. 
Every variety of character may there be found : 
the eccentric backwoodsman, the haughty South- 
erner, the Quaker descendant of William Penn, 
the acute New Englander, and the thousand queer 
phases of character which abound in our Atlantic 
cities might furnish subjects enough for any rea- 
sonable satirist. For him who turning from the 
study of man devotes himself to the contempla- 
tion of the works of God, we could ask no nobler 
themes than our magnificent country can afford. 
The pathless forest with its dim, monastic aisles, 
the untrodden wilderness, the expansive lake, the 
silvery waterfall, the world-astounding cataract, 
the towering mountain, the broad prairie spread- 
ing like a lake of verdure, — all are there in match- 
less beauty to fill the eye and the imagination. 
The poet, the painter, need look no farther than 
their native soil to find subjects by which to im- 
mortalize themselves. Let them go abroad for 
study — let them enlarge their minds by commu- 



68 Essay on American Literature. 

nion with their fellows in every clime. Let them 
gaze on the miraculous beauty of St. Peter's, on 
the exquisite proportions of the Venus de Medici, 
and become eloquent in praise of the glorious 
visions of beauty which throng the galleries of the 
nobles of other lands, but let them pay the debt 
they owe to the country of their birth. Let their 
hope of fame be so interwoven with her glory that 
the laurel would be worthless if it grew on another 
soil. 

Much is now doing for the cause of literature, but 
much yet remains to be done. Our young men 
must be taught that wealth is not the only good. 
The desolation which is now sweeping over the 
land, crushing down the golden harvest which 
men hoped to garner in their graneries, and, 
alas ! crushing with it many a noble spirit, might 
well teach them such a lesson. The resources of 
mental treasure are indeed incalculable, and happy 
is he to whom such wealth belongs. Our country 
now demands intellectual laborers. Our sons must 
be educated in such a manner that if suddenly 
summoned to act they may be ready. A mere 
military education was once sufficient for this — 
the man that could handle a musket was once 
ready to serve his country, but now we fight with 
other weapons. The cool head, the collected judg- 
ment, the warm patriotism, the undeviating in- 
tegrity of a statesman are now his noblest aims. 



Essay on American Literature. 69 

It is not alone as a poet or a satirist that a man 
may rise to distinction. Every member who oc- 
cupies the floor in our houses of Congress is an 
object of attention to his fellow-citizens and to the 
assembled thousands of Europe. 

The Old World is calmly looking to see the result 
of the grand experiment of self-government, and 
surely it behooves us to use every effort for its suc- 
cess. ^' Let me make the songs of a nation, and I 
care not who makes its laws," said a skilful stu- 
dent of human nature. The laws of a country 
may be the best ever planned, but public opin- 
ion will sometimes rule in spite of them, and is it 
not then important that public opinion should be 
properly directed ? 

The same impulses which are wrought upon for 
purposes of disorderly demagogues might be 
wrought upon for good by better men. The 
amazing influence of newspapers will sufficiently 
prove what might be the influence of literature 
over the people. We are, generally speaking, an 
educated nation, and therefore its influence must 
necessarily be widely diffused. Who can doubt, 
therefore, the importance of possessing a literary 
class in society and a national literature. But 
before this can be accomplished our authors must 
be sufficiently encouraged to enable them to live 
by their mental rather than manual labor. Our 
poets must not be obliged to close the book of 



70 Essay on American TAterature. 

nature while they pore over a dull ledger, or 
waste their fine powers on the columns of a daily 
newspaper. Our gifted delineators of character 
must not be obliged to steal a few brief moments 
for such pursuits from the toils of an arduous 
business or a laborious profession. The pleasant 
labors of the intellect are sufficiently severe with- 
out adding the task-work of worldly business. 
The lamp of life will waste quite soon enough 
when fed with midnight oil, without also con- 
suming its pure light over the dull details of a 
working-day world. 




€ljc disW of Cljilbtcu. 




MONG- the various forms under which 
the subject of human rights has been 
discussed, it seems strange that no one 
has attempted to define with accuracy 
and precision the rights of that portion of the 
inhabitants of earth who are destined soon to 
jostle us aside in the race of life. The claims 
of children we are willing to allow, but their 
rights we rarely take into consideration. The 
laws by which they are governed, though founded 
principally on the immutable basis of moral truth, 
are yet so modified by the caprice of those to 
whom has been deputed their execution, that their 
original meaning is often entirely lost. Every 
parent is his own commentator upon that system 
of laws; and it frequently happens in this, as in 
the tribunals of public justice, that, while moot- 
ing some trifling point of legal subtlety, the equity 
of the case is forgotten. There is no want of pa- 
rental love in the world, for God has wisely im- 



72 The Rights of Children. 

planted iu our bosoms an instinct which awakens 
at the first feeble wail of infancy. Well is it for 
the creatures intrusted to our care that we do share 
this instinct with the beasts that perish. Well is 
it that a law of our being regulates our primary 
duties to the helpless little ones who come into the 
world to be a weariness to our hearts, even if they 
be not a burden to our hands. Well is it that we 
are not left to the cold calculations of reason in 
our first consciousness of these new duties and 
cares ! But the mere animal instinct which be- 
longs to all differs as widely from the true, de- 
voted, disinterested sentiment of parental tender- 
ness, as does the selfish policy of the mouthing 
demagogue from pure, elevated, enlightened pa- 
triotism. Children may be beloved, and yet may 
suffer great injustice and cruel wrong at the 
hands of those whose privilege it is to protect 
them from harm ; for it is difficult to say whether 
utter neglect is worse than the evils which grow 
out of a mistaken sense of duty, a vague and in- 
distinct idea of their rights, and a belief in the 
necessity of certain rules, which perhaps never ex- 
isted save in the mind of an injudicious parent. 
One of the first rights which children are dis- 
posed to claim is that of being instructed and en- 
lightened. As soon as they begin to take note 
of objects, their inquiring looks tell what their 
imperfect organs of speech fail to utter; and 



The Rights of Children. 73 

as soon as tliey can frame language for their 
thoughts they ask questions. Everything is new 
and strange to them; objects of curiosity and in- 
terest surround them on every side, and they de- 
mand the information which is best adapted to 
their unfolding faculties. But how do we gener- 
ally respond to this claim ? The guardians of in- 
fancy are usually selected with infinitely less care 
than we should bestow npon the qualifications of 
a cook, since a certain degree of skill is requisite 
to the proper pampering of our appetites, while 
any one is supposed to be capable of '' tending 
baby." That poor scapegoat of a family, known as 
the '' little servant-girl," or a nursemaid, who is 
supposed to perform the duties of a foster-mother, 
just in proportion to the amount of her wages, 
is usually intrusted to imprint first impressions 
upon the waxen minds of our little ones. And 
surely the child whose dawning intellect is clouded 
by the mists of ignorance and folly, through this 
gross neglect of one of a parent's highest privi- 
leges, has been despoiled of one of its most solemn 
rights. Years may elapse ere the thick darkness 
which is thus allowed to settle on the infant mind 
is dissipated ; j^ears of weariness to the child, of 
anxiety to the parent; of self-distrust to the one, 
and of self-reproach to the other. Let us recur 
to the scenes of our own childhood, and endeavor 
to recall some of the moments in which light was 



74 The Eights of Children. 

poured into our own souls. What do we remem- 
ber most vividly ? It is the precepts of the father 
to whose knee we climbed when the toils of the day 
were over, and the weary man sought rest in the 
bosom of domestic peace. It is the counsel of the 
mother who never silenced by rebuke the inquir- 
ing voice ; of the mother who threw aside book 
or work at the call of her child, and, seated on the 
floor amid our heap of infant toys, would share 
our sports while she imparted the golden trea- 
sures of daily wisdom. How futile are all the 
attempts of modern utility, all the schemes of 
'' philosophy made easy," etc., all the new methods 
of cheating children into the rudiments of science, 
compared with the varied and desultory, but im- 
pressive, instructions of the judicious parent, who, 
while possessing sufficient youthfulness of feeling 
to enjoy with her children the game of romps so 
essential to the overflow of their animal spirits, 
has yet sufficient tact and wisdom to seize the 
moment of quiet thoughtfulness to impress on 
their ductile minds the lessons of truth. Yes, 
children have a right to be instructed. They 
come to us fresh and pure from the hands of the 
Almighty, bearing on their souls the impress of 
his signet. It is for us to unfold the unwritten 
scroll, to inscribe it with the characters of moral 
truth, and to trace on it not only the oracles of 
nature, but also the interpretation of her dark 



The Rights of Children. 75 

sayings. Another right which children possess in 
as great a degree as their elders is that of be- 
ing governed by fixed rules of conduct. What 
should we say of a state which, instead of promul- 
gating a code of laws for the direction of its sub- 
jects, left them entirely at the mercy of a ruler^s 
whims ? 

Yet wherein does such a despotic system differ 
from the domestic tyranny which fixes no boun- 
dary between right and wrong except such as the 
caprice of the parent may build up at the moment ? 
In most points, the moral code is the same in all 
well-regulated families; but the system of family 
government must necessarily differ. Every head 
of a household, like a patriarch of the olden time, 
is a ruler over his people, but all the general sys- 
tems of conduct that ever were propounded, all 
the guides to domestic happiness that ever ema- 
nated from the fertile brains of theorizers, will fail 
in enabling a man to fulfil the duties of so respon- 
sible a station, if his mind be not illumined by 
truth, and his heart filled with religious reverence. 
There must be one general system of government, 
and there must be an individual one, modified by 
the exigencies of special circumstances, but both 
must harmonize. Children must be taught the 
principles of the laws by which they are directed, 
and they should be fully informed of the meaning 
of every variation from the fixed rules. They 



76 The Eights of Children. 

should not be constrained by the old despotic 
method, '^ Sic volo, sic jubeo." Such a species of 
tyranny awakens in a spirited child a sense of in- 
justice, while in a timid one it tends to crush all 
latent energy of character. During the first two 
or three years of infancy, the '^ sic volo'^ should 
be made to exert its proper influence in subject- 
ing the will of a creature too young to be made ac- 
quainted with moral restraints ; but when the time 
arrives (and it comes far sooner than we are will- 
ing to believe) when the mind is awakening to a 
perception of truth, and the child asks, "Why 
must I do so ! " no judicious parent will be content 
with answering, ''Sic jubeo." Let the expanding rea- 
son be enlightened, let the intellect be satisfied, let 
the young questioner feel that he is not expected 
to offer the slavish obedience of the ox or the ass; 
and be assured that if you have fulfilled your 
duty in the days of infancy, he will not hesitate in 
his obedience. A little while, and the remembrance 
that his questions on such points ever resulted in 
renewed assurance of his parent's superior judg- 
ment will silence all doubt, and produce in his 
mind the habit of silent, unquestioning submission. 
Surely the willing obedience of an enlightened 
and trusting spirit is far better than the reluctant 
deference of an impatient bondsman. Nothing 
can be more absurd in theory and more vile in 
practice than the attempt, in common parlance, to 



The Bights of Children. 77 

" break the temper," and to ^' crusli the will." The 
force which seeks to subdue a determined will only 
increases its obstinate power of resistance, while 
if the power be exerted against a wayward rather 
than a strong will, the effect must necessarily be 
to produce weakness, irresolution, want of moral 
dignity, and almost of moral responsibility. 

No, let the temper be subdued, softened, modi- 
fied by every gentle and decided means ; let the 
will be directed by the precepts of the book of all 
truth ; let the mind be illumined with knowledge, 
and the heart purified by virtue, and then safely 
may we trust the hottest head and the most way- 
ward temper. Many a noble and spirited boy has 
been driven to desperation and destruction by the 
exercise of despotic power, suddenly assumed as a 
counterpoise to the evil results of the past unlim- 
ited injustice. Many a timid and sensitive child 
has been bowed down beneath a weight of tyranny 
which he could not comprehend, and in learning to 
submit to thraldom has learned to play the liar to 
his own soul. Children are entitled to more respect 
than is generally accorded them. There is in every 
young mind, unless perverted by indulgence, or 
indurated by unkindness, a certain quality, which 
cannot be better designated than by the term self- 
respect. Next to the restraints of religion and 
conscience, there is nothing which can erect so 
strong a barrier against the encroachments of vice 



78 The Eights of Children. 

as this same quality. Yet in nine cases out of ten 
we confound self-respect with self-conceit, and 
attribute to the dictates of foolish vanity or per- 
verse pride those emotions of acute shame which 
are occasioned by the public rebuke, or the per- 
sonal degradation. A keen sense of shame is usu- 
ally accompanied with great sensitiveness of con- 
science, and when in the plenitude of our power 
we pursue a system which tends to blunt the one, 
we may be sure that we shall dull the perceptions 
of the other. Any kind of discipline which de- 
grades a child in his own eyes, or in those of his 
companions, is injurious to the character, and of 
all debasing, demoralizing influences, the worst 
is bodily fear. One of the most frightful pictures 
ever presented to the writer's mind was that af- 
forded by the convicts of Auburn prison as they 
were marched out from their workshops to their 
dining-hall, with locked step, folded arms, and 
faces turned toward their keepers. There were 
six hundred men, strong in body, active in mind, 
powerful in will — men who had faced crime in 
almost every shape, men who had learned to 
make daring and criminal deeds the very measure 
of their lives; yet were they subjected to the most 
implicit obedience, reduced to the most abject sub- 
missiori, crushed beneath the paralyzing weight of 
positive bodily fear. They dreaded the lash like 
base hounds ; and amid the deep traces of sin and 



The Rights of Children. 79 

suffering written on their blasted brows, could be 
read the debasing influence of that system which 
sears the mind through the scars of the quivering 
body. It may be that there are characters which 
require the exercise of brute force to restrain their 
evil propensities; but let us at least hope that 
they are but few. 

The child who has been early taught the power 
of moral influences, whose perceptions have been 
fully awakened to the dignity of human nature 
by being made acquainted with its direct respon- 
sibility to God, its Creator and Preserver, who has 
been guided, restrained, directed, but never de- 
graded by the discipline which his youth required, 
will be found to be one of the noblest of the hu- 
man race. And is there not another species of 
respect to which children are entitled ? " Let no- 
thing impure enter here, for this is the abode of 
infancy," might be inscribed in letters of gold on 
the portal of every nursery. How often does the 
idle song, the ribald jest, or the loose conversa- 
tion uttered by those who believe themselves safe 
in a child's youth and ignorance, contaminate for 
ever the snowy purity of the infant mind ! How 
often does the want of that sensitive delicacy 
which is, as it were, the blush of the soul, that in- 
stinctive dread of everything like the shadow of 
evil, how often does the lack of this quality in 
the guardians of childhood lay the foundation of 



80 The Rights of Children. 

shamelessiiess in after lite ! How much of the 
recklessness of vice, and its distrust of virtue, 
may be traced to the indiscriminate associations 
of the nursery and the boarding-school! In the 
course of a discussion which I once heard respect- 
ing the moral tendency of Bulwer^s writings, a 
lady of the company gave the following testimony : 

^^ I was one day reading aloud for a friend," 
said she, '^ one of Bulwer's most fascinating novels, 
and, while thus engaged, my daughter, a child of 
some ten years of age, entered and seated herself 
beside me. I was in the midst of one of his most 
impassioned scenes ; the language was full of elo- 
quence and beauty, yet my cheek burned as I 
pursued the theme. My eye glanced timidly down 
the page in advance of my voice, as if I feared 
to give utterance to all that might come, and at 
length, with some plausible excnse, in order to 
avoid exciting curiosity by my sudden change of 
purpose, I closed the book. I well knew that the 
spotless mind of my child could not be sullied by 
the burning words which she could not compre- 
hend, but the presence of purity was a reproach 
to passion, and I dared not insult the dignity of 
unconscious innocence." 

What a commentary upon the book ! What an 
example to those who know naught of the respect 
due to childhood ! 

But the right which most closely appertains to 



The Bights of Children. 81 

these little people, and one which most materially 
affects their after life, is one which, strange to 
say, is often least regarded. It is the right to en- 
joy a happy childhood. You look surprised, gen- 
tle reader. Did you labor under the mistake of 
supposing all children happy? You were never 
more deceived. Gay and thoughtless and merry 
they may be, for there is a sense of animal enjoy- 
ment in their young life which ever utters its 
voice in mirthfulness, but how few can you find 
in whom is a fountain of pure, deep joy ever 
bubbling up from the heart to the lips? How 
few are there who are habitually cheerful without 
the excitements of amusements and companion- 
ship. We take great pains to procure pleasures 
for our children, but rarely do we study the art 
of making them happy. 

Regard, for instance, the children of those fond 
and i jdulgent parents who seem to forget that 
there are any other claims upon them than those 
of parental love. Look into the nursery strewed 
with fragments of costly toys, remnants of the 
whim of yesterday ; observe the varied appliances 
which nurture them into feebleness, the delicate 
food which pampers diseased appetite, the rich 
attire which awakens selfish vanity, and the un- 
limited devotion to their caprices which governs 
the whole household. Every day brings a new 
pleasure j something is constantly in prospect for 



82 The Bights of Children. 

their gratification, and the time, the wealth, and 
the talents of those fond parents are lavished to 
confer happiness upon their idols. But how do 
they succeed 1 Let the fragile health, the dissatis- 
fied temper, the peevish indifference, the revolting 
selfishness of the indulged and sated creatures, an- 
swer. Their happiness has been sought through 
the medium of the senses alone. They have been 
gratified in every appetite, but the moral sources 
of enjoyment have never been opened to them. 
Selfish desires have been forced into premature 
development, and the result is satiety and dis- 
content. The childish voluptuary must suffer the 
same penalty which awaits sensual indulgence in 
later life; but woe unto those who hang so fear- 
ful a weight upon the wings of a pure and sinless 
spirit ! Let us reverse the picture, and look into 
the domestic circle of one of those mistaken men 
who find sin in everything beautiful or joyful in 
the world, and " seek to merit heaven by making 
earth a hell." Carefully, conscientiously, ay, with 
deep agony of spirit, has he unfolded to his chil- 
dren the sinfulness of their hearts, the utter de- 
pravity of their natures, and the certainty of their 
eternal condemnation. The God whom his chil- 
dren ought to address as their Father in Heaven 
wears to them the semblance of a stern and vin- 
dictive Judge. This beautiful world they are 
taught to regard but as a field of snares and pit- 



The Rights of Children. 83 

falls, while the resources of intellectual life are to 
them but so many temptations of the Evil One. 

Self-denial, not the voluntary surrender of sel- 
fish wishes to the impulses of a noble and gener- 
ous soul, but the self-denial of a mean calculation, 
which by a sacrifice now hopes to secure a re- 
ward in future; a truckling, bargaining disposi- 
tion, which would fain buy God to favor by bod- 
ily penance, together with the carefulness of the 
steward who hid in a napkin the talent which 
should have been used to his Master's honor, are 
enjoined upon them by every threat and promise. 
They are taught that just in proportion to their 
obstinate rejection of all pleasures now will be 
their fruition of heavenly joys, and the fearful 
words of Scripture, which might well appal the 
stoutest heart, ^^ He that otfendeth in one point is 
guilty of all," are written as in letters of blood upon 
the door-posts of their houses. Oh ! if there be a 
deep and damning sin, next in blackness only to 
the guilt of deliberately seducing youth into vice, 
it is that of turning into such a bitter draught of 
gall and wormwood the pure upspringings of early 
devotion. There is an instinctive, impulsive sense 
of religion in every young, pure heart, an innate 
reverence for the good, an intuitive perception of 
the beauty of holiness ; and woe unto those who 
check the spontaneous effusions of gratitude, by 
depicting to the mental view a God of judgment 



84 The Rights of Children. 

rather than of mercy. Happiness is ever allied 
with goodness, and the happiest child is that one 
who has been fully disciplined in every dut}^ Let 
a child be taught the religion of love, and not of 
fear; let every day afford him a new lesson of 
forbearance toward others, and control over him- 
self ; let every selfish impulse be repressed by 
noble motives of action ; let his mind be enlight- 
ened by knowledge best adapted to his faculties, 
and then let him be surrounded by everything 
that can make life bright and beautiful. Send 
him out into the woods and fields to study the 
works of God, and to acquire health of body, and 
vigor of mind, beneath the blessed influences of 
the free air and blessed sunshine. Let him enjoy 
to the very utmost all the simple pleasures which 
nature affords to the unpolluted heart, and thus, 
amid all things joyous, will he acquire the elas- 
ticity of mind and cheerfulness of temper which 
are such effectual aids in life to after sorrows. 
Salutary, indeed, in later years, are the iufluences 
of a happy childhood. Sorrow may cloud each 
coming day, and fear may haunt the distant fu- 
ture; guilt may have stained the hand, and vice 
may have blackened the heart, but from the 
depths of degradation and sorrow and crime will 
men look back to the scenes of their earliest youth 
with a yearning tenderness. And if those scenes 
are clad in the sunshine of happiness, if they can 



TJie Rights of Children. 85 

behold there ever the good, the beautiful, and the 
true, who can tell with what saving power such 
remembrances may come to the world-wearied and 
sin-stained soul ? It is not for us to guard from 
life's manifold ills the precious beings intrusted 
to our care, but we can at least impart the bless- 
ing of happiness in those years when impressions 
are most easily fixed in unchangeable truthfulness. 
We can make them happy in childhood, happy 
not in pampered indulgence, not in unrestrained 
license, not in ascetic penance, but in the daily 
exercise of duties, in the consciousness of moral 
dignity, in the enjoyment of all pure pleasures. 
Let us look upon them as rational and responsible 
beings, never forgetting that their responsibility 
as moral agents imposes a double duty upon those 
whose privilege it is to lead their faltering steps 
from the threshold of life to the portal of eternity. 





Cotiniia* 



■ N a certain evening in the year 1808, 
a brilliant party was assembled in the 
splendid mansion of M, Hottinger^ 
the rich banker of Geneva. All that 
wealth and taste could provide for the entertain- 
ment of guests was there gathered in profusion, 
and never had there been a finer display of the 
beauty and gaiety of that distinguished city. 
But there was one attraction which upon this 
occasion far outvied all others — for fashion was 
just then shedding its benignant smile upon a 
true child of genius ; and the authoress of '' Co- 
rinna/' who was enjoying, not the first, but cer- 
tainly the most wide-spread triumphs of her lite- 
rary renown, was the star of the splendid festival. 
The strikingly original character of this noble 
work, its high-toned sentiment, its fine poetic 
spirit, and its exquisite pictures of Italy, that 
treasure-house of classical reminiscence, all com- 



Corinna. 



87 



bined to make it the most remarkable production 
of the age. The general belief, too, that in the 
gifted heroine was depicted the author's self (a 
belief which is now known to be erroneous*), gave 
intensity to the interest with which this distin- 
guished woman w^as greeted in society, and wher- 
ever she appeared she was welcomed by crowds 
of admirers. 

In the midst of a magnificent saloon, surrounded 
by a large circle of delighted listeners, was seated 
the woman to whom the united suffrages of soci- 
ety had given the name by which she is still 
known, — "the Corinna of her age." She was no 



* It is now believed, and with 
much reason, that in her deline- 
ation of the character of Co- 
rinna, Mme. de Stael drew upon 
the stores of memory rather 
than imagination. A friend of 
her early years, Mademoiselle 
Braun, a Danish lady, was the 
original of this portrait, which, 
exaggerated as it seems, scarcely 
does justice to the wonderful 
charms of the real woman. She 
is said to have been extremely 
beautiful and graceful, and to 
have been mistress of all the 
continental languages at the 
early age of thirteen, while her 
skill in music, her great power 
in the higher walks of dramatic 
representation, and, above all, 



her superb talent for improvisa- 
tion, obtained her the most bril- 
liant success in the best society 
of Europe. Even the jealous 
Romans listened to her with 
delight, and Canova, who ex- 
pressed in everlasting marble 
the poetry of his nature, was 
enraptured with the Scandina- 
vian enchantress, whose ex- 
ceeding grace, he confessed, had 
greatly aided his own ideal sense 
of beauty. Mademoiselle Braun 
accompanied Mme. de Stael to 
Italy, and while in Rome she 
met Count Ludwig de Bom- 
belles, ambassador from the 
court of Austria to Tuscany, 
whom she afterward married. 



88 Gorinna. 

longer young, but time had contented himself 
with developing the full proportions of her noble 
figure without venturing yet to lay upon her a 
despoiling hand. Her person was large, stately, 
and commanding, and the effect of her queenly 
bearing was increased by a rich and peculiar style 
of dress, which, without departing widely from 
the fashion of the day, was yet decidedly pictur- 
esque and characteristic. Her eyes were magnifi- 
cent, large, black, lustrous, and full of expression; 
her small hand and snowy arms were as beautiful 
as if modeled after a sculptor^s dream of sym- 
metry ; but, alas ! these constituted Corinna's only 
claim to a woman's dower of loveliness. Even her 
most extravagant admirers could find no trace of 
beauty in those heavy features, whose rapid play 
of expression and extreme mobility seemed to 
bring out in stronger relief their total want of 
regularity. Corinna had never been popular in 
general society. Men could not forgive the ugli- 
ness of a woman who possessed such superiority 
of intellect, for the two qualities involved a double 
sin against themselves. Women were startled by 
her fearless strength of mind, her frank expression 
of opinions, and her want of courtly stratagem 
and tact. They might have excused her mental 
excellence on the ground of her utter deficiency 
in feminine loveliness, but they shrank from one 
who could become the exponent of many a hidden 



Gorinna. 89 

thing in woman's heart, and who was also guilty 
of the heinous offense of daring to dress and act 
independently of the prescribed laws of fashion. 
Yet all wondered at her, many admired her, and 
some appreciated and loved her. Her soul was 
full of energy ; she grasped every idea with almost 
masculine firmness, while she analyzed every sub- 
ject with the delicate perceptions of a woman. 
She seemed to revel in a sense of power; there 
was a reckless outpouring of her strength on all 
occasions, which the world mistook for presump- 
tion and arrogance, but which was, in fact, only 
an overwhelming sense of pleasure in the exercise 
of her restless faculties. She had little of the 
craftiness which nature ever bestows on weaker 
animals. There was a fearless truthfulness in 
her nature which scorned the petty concealments 
to which women are trained from the cradle ; but 
in her noble contempt of deception, she went al- 
most too far, and amid the false conventionalisms 
of society, she became almost brusque and stern. 
Yet was her heart full of womanly tenderness, and 
abounding in all human charities. She knew that 
her gifts were perilous ones to a woman's happi- 
ness; she knew that on her had been bestowed 
few of those endowments which win the love that 
women are born to prize. Yet how nobly she 
bore this knowledge may be conjectured from the 
fact that the chosen friend and companion, both 



90 Gorinna. 

of her solitary and social hours, was the lovely 
Mme. de Recamier, whose beauty was so remark- 
able that, when in London, she was compelled to 
wear a thick veil in order to avoid the rudely 
expressed homage of a not over-refined popu- 
lace. Is it to be wondered at, if the renowned Co- 
rinna should value those gifts of genius which 
she hoped would recompense her for the denial of 
personal attractions? Is it surprising if, in the 
brilliant circles of such society as she now drew 
around her, she should give herself up to the joy 
of those triumphs which her genius had achieved? 
And is it strange that they who envied the powers 
they could not appreciate, should mistake the plea- 
sure for the arrogance of power ? On the evening 
of which we speak, Corinna had been wonderfully 
brilliant, and had excited general admiration by 
her ready wit, her beautiful poetic fancies, and 
her striking apothegms, which seemed less the 
result of past reflection than the effect of sudden 
intuition. Every one seemed to have either shared 
her success or to have admired her at a distance, 
and, in the plenitude of her gratified pride, she 
appeared the admired, the flattered, the excited, 
perhaps the vain woman. '^ Had she been less 
brilliant in conversation," says Chateaubriand, 
^' she would have loved the world less, and would 
have been ignorant of its petty passions. To 
render her perfect, she needed not a virtue more, 



Corinna. 91 

but a talent less.'' This remark from the lips of 
cotemporary genius is as true as it is beautiful. 
The mind that feared not to brave the vengeance 
of Napoleon yet suffered from the petty stings of 
narrow-souled envyj and the neglect of society 
was as painful to the gifted woman as its appre- 
ciation was gratifying. 

Among M. Hottinger's guests was a young sol- 
dier, a native of Geneva, whose striking beauty of 
person, added to a certain lofty and spiritualized 
expression of countenance, had early attracted the 
notice of Corinna. She observed that he mingled 
not with those who clustered around her, where 
she sat enthroned like a priestess whose words 
were oracles. With the usual perversity of hu- 
man nature, which ever finds double interest in 
that which seems difficult of attainment, the eyes 
and thoughts of the lady wandered again and 
again toward the indifferent spectator of her suc- 
cess. She inquired his name, and learned that 
Captain de Rocca was an officer in the army 
of Napoleon; that he was without influence or 
fortune, but well born, gifted with indomitable 
courage, possessing talents of a high order, and 
occasionally giving evidences of a character deeply 
tinged with that romance which, in earlier times, 
would have made him a '^ preux chevalier." But 
she had no opportunity of testing the truth of 
these things, for he studiously avoided a presen- 



92 Corinna. 

tation to the literary star, and seemed content to 
while away the hours in the merry dance or the 
gay gossip of the fair and young. 

Toward the close of the evening, accident brought 
Corinna almost beside the young soldier, although 
the heavy folds of some ornamental drapery pre- 
vented him from discovering her proximity. A 
friend with whom he was conversing was pouring 
forth a glowing eulogium upon her talents, and 
with an interest for which she could not account. 
The lady half paused to catch De Rocca's reply. 
"EUe est bien laide" (She is ugly enough), was 
the half-indolent, half-scornful answer of the 
young officer. And this was all. He had no ear 
for her musical voice, no eye for her exceeding 
grace, no soul for her high thoughts — he noted 
nothing but personal defects. For an instant Co- 
rinna's lip grew pale, and a cold shudder pervaded 
her frame. In the excitement of the moment, she 
had lost all painful sense of outward identity ; she 
had forgotten the brand which stamped her as one 
shut out from womanly hope. This sudden and 
cruel recall to a bitter consciousness came with 
double force in an hour of surpassing triumph. 
But cold eyes were looking upon her ; and, sum- 
moning her pride to her aid, she swept by the of- 
fender with a half smile, while she playfully chal- 
lenged the friends who had heard the remark, to 
afford her an opportunity of avenging herself. 



Corinna. 93 

What were her real feelings may be surmised, but 
they were never expressed, for with the morrow 
came the tidings that De Rocca was ordered to join 
his regiment without delay. The army was sent 
into Spain for the purpose of upholding the power 
of the new king w^hich Napoleon had given to the 
country; and ere the close of another day, the 
young officer was far distant from Geneva and 
Corinna. Time passed on, and amid the trials and 
troubles which assailed her, Mme. de Stael had 
ceased to think of the offense or the offender, 
w^hen she accidentally encountered De Rocca soon 
after his return from the disastrous Spanish 
campaign. He was now invested with all the 
honors of heroism, for he had performed prodigies 
of valor in the field -, and the price at which his 
fame had been won w^as shown in his bowed form 
and pallid features. He had received incurable 
wounds, from the effects of which his health was 
gradually declining; and the bold hardihood of 
his noble spirit had been crushed beneath the mor- 
tification of a defeat against which no single- 
handed bravery could contend. He was no longer 
the gay and light-hearted youth, looking only on 
the surface of things, and trusting to his good 
sword to carve his way to fortune and honor. The 
stately beauty of his person was faded, the fire of 
his soul was quenched ; he was feeble from bodily 
suffering, and subdued by mental grief. But his 



94 Corinna. 

thoughts took refuge in their secret sanctuary; 
he was more unworldly, more intellectual, and the 
pure light of spiritual influences illumined the 
countenance from which the glow of outward life 
had departed. 

The tale of De Rocca's heroic valor had reached 
Corinna's ears, and when she read in his changed 
appearance the evidence of his sufferings, her soul 
was touched with compassion. She accosted him 
with kindly sympathy, and he who had scorned 
the proud charms of the genius was melted before 
the sweetness of the gentle and tender woman. 
An acquaintance now commenced, which was soon 
ripened into intimacy by the claims of gratitude 
on the one side, and the gifts of sympathy on the 
other. In the wreck of health and hopes, De 
Rocca was compelled to seek for some means 
of an honorable subsistence, and ere long the 
noble-minded Corinna proposed that he should 
fulfil the responsible and confidential duties of 
her amanuensis. 

How little could it have been foreseen that the 
accidental and disagreeable meeting which took 
place a few years before would have resulted in 
such a friendship as had now grown up between 
them. Months swiftly glided away. De Rocca 
was now occupying apartments in Castle Coppet, 
sitting daily at its hospitable board, and sharing 
the every thought of its gifted mistress, as his 



Corinna. 95 

ready pen noted the eloquent utterance of her 
hiirh soul. Had he found her a mere creature of 
intellect, his task would have been one of little 
danger, for the affections wake not at the voice of 
mental power. But Corinna was a being full of 
tender emotion, sympathizing with all who suf- 
fered, abounding in charity and goodness, bestow- 
ing the most winning kindliness on the humblest 
domestic in her household, considerate for the 
comfort of all, ever generous and self -forgetting, 
and exercising her genius only as a means of ele- 
vating the daily charities of life. To the world 
her talents were like a lofty beacon-light, illumin- 
ing a wide waste of darkness; but to those who 
dwelt within the influences of her home, they were 
like a bright household fire, giving warmth and 
cheerfulness to all around. De Rocca saw all these 
things, and his heart was disquieted within him. 
He could not comprehend the struggles of his own 
soul; he could not believe that his nature was 
seeking the recognition of its ideal in the glorious 
being with whom he was now daily associated. 
And as little could Corinna dream that now, when 
her head was bowed beneath the weary weight 
of its laurel crown, when time had furrowed her 
brow, and grief had saddened her spirit, she should 
be the object of a love so tender and enduring. 
One evening De Rocca sat alone in the library; 
many papers lay before him which needed to be 



96 Corinna. 

arranged on the morrow, and as he wearily re- 
sumed his pen, he heard the roll of the carriage- 
wheels which bore Corinna to a gay party in 
Geneva. He was too feeble and broken-spirited 
to find pleasure in such scenes of excitement, yet 
now, as he listened to the sound that reminded 
him of the brilliant circles of which the baroness 
was ever the ornament, he felt unutterably 
wretched. Leaning his head on his clasped hands, 
he gave himself up to the bitter fancies which his 
condition awakened. With a feeling of hopeless 
anguish, such as he had never before known, he 
forced himself to look into his own heart, and he 
beheld there a love, deep, fervent, yet, as it seemed 
to him, worse than frantic, for one whose years far 
outnumbered his, whose position elevated her be- 
yond his loftiest aims, and whose renown made 
her so shining a mark for the shafts of envy and 
calumny. Silent, almost stirless, he sat, while the 
shiver of sudden pain, or the mechanical gesture 
by which he wiped from his high, pale brow the 
big drops of agony, alone disturbed his statue-like 
stillness. How long he thus dwelt amid his fear- 
ful thoughts he knew not, but hours passed away 
unheeded, and he awoke not from his trance of 
feeling until a light hand was laid upon his shoul- 
der, and a gentle voice addressed him in accents 
of wondering sympathy. He looked up, and Co- 
rinna stood before him decked in the rich array 



Corinna. 97 

which she had worn at the gay scene she had just 
quitted. She had seen the light as she passed the 
library on her way to her dressing-room, and fear- 
ing lest De Rocca was overtasking his strength in 
her service, she had entered the apartment unper- 
ceived by its melancholy inmate. 

"You are early returned, madame/' was the 
stammering salutation of De Rocca, as he started 
from his reverie, and rose hastily from his chair. 

" Not so, monsieur ; the night is rapidly wearing 
away, but the flight of time has been forgotten by 
you while watching the vagrant wanderings of 
thought," replied the lady. "You are sad, my 
friend," continued she ; " have you any new sor- 
row which sympathy may alleviate ; or think you 
that I have not the right to comfort, or the privi- 
lege of sharing your confidence?" 

De Rocca gazed for an instant into the superb 
eyes which were bent tenderly upon him ; then, as 
if the tide of feeling overpowered him, he poured 
forth all the wild dreams which had so absorbed 
his soul. He told her of the deep love which had 
sprung up within his heart ; he pictured the wild 
and fervid tenderness which he could no longer 
subdue or repress; he uttered those eloquent 
breathings of the soul which woman never hears 
without a thrill of sympathizing if not responsive 
emotion, and then, kneeling before her, he bent 
his head until his lips almost met the small, white 



98 Corinna. 

hand he deemed it sacrilege to profane with a 
touch, and bade her farewell forever. Corinna's 
whole frame shook as she listened to his burning 
words. Her lips were blanched and her cheek 
was like ashes as she bowed her proud forehead 
until it rested on the dark locks of her youthful 
lover. A moment, a blissful moment, of silent 
emotion ensued, and then, rising, she paced the 
room with hurried steps 5 at length she paused. 
'^Are you not deceiving yourself in this matter, 
De Rocca!" she exclaimed, while the faltering 
tones of her musical voice betrayed her interest 
in the question. ''Do you really believe I can 
contribute to your happiness!^' 

'' More than all earth beside," was the patient 
reply. 

" Yet you would leave me, — you would shun 
my presence." 

''I would, madame; for I dare not yield myself 
to the dangerous fascination of your society. I 
have not strength to endure such a fiery trial." 

" These are strange words, De Rocca. Do you 
forget that I am no longer young — that you are 
addressing these words to one whose heart was 
withered ere its time ; to one who has passed the 
season of passion 5 to one who, from her very girl- 
hood, has learned to crush the deep yearnings of 
her nature, and to utter only through the lips of 
ideal beings the strong emotions of her soul ? " 



Corinna. 99 

" I know you to be as a being of a higher and 
holier sphere. I know that in loving yon I am 
like the mad votary of the sun, who would fain 
pluck his idol from its lofty sphere, and dies be- 
neath its light." 

"Listen to me, my friend. From my youth I 
have ever struggled against those tender and 
passionate impulses which make the charm or the 
curse of woman's life. Wedded to one with whom 
I had no sympathy, yet coldly fulfilling every duty 
toward him until drawn from his side by my duty 
to our children when his affairs became inextri- 
cably embarrassed, and I was compelled to take 
refuge with my father ; again assuming my place 
near him when infirmity and illness rendered the 
services of a friend essential to him ; and finally 
closing his eyes, and receiving his last sigh with 
a regret growing out of benevolence and habitude 
— such has been my experience of domestic hap- 
piness. I was cut off from a woman's sweetest 
privilege, that of loving and being loved, aud I 
sought the only true vocation which remained for 
me. I trod the path of literature with a step ren- 
dered firmer by that unquenchable thirst which I 
hoped to slake in the fountain of knowledge, and 
I have won deep draughts from that enduring 
stream. I have gained fame beyond my hopes, 
but never have I satisfied my pining want of sym- 
pathy — never has my search for quiet happiness 



100 Corinna. 

been rewarded. My children love me fondly, but 
my renown has come between me and them ; they 
love and honor and revere me, but they venture 
not to enter my heart of hearts -, they minister 
not at the cold shrine of my womanly instincts. 
Time and the weight of long repression have 
chilled my wild and vain regrets. I cannot now 
yield myself up to the allurements of the passion- 
ate love which would once have made my life like 
a dream of heaven. But there is still within me 
a capacity for friendship tender and true ; for 
friendship which is, perhaps, only a sweeter and 
more enduring form of the Proteus love. You 
are necessary to my happiness, dear Albert ; you 
have sympathies and aifections which meet the 
exigencies of my nature. We must not part." 

^' We must — alas! we must part. It is dying a 
thousand deaths to live thus. I must leave you 
while I yet have power." 

^^ Not if this hand can stay you, Albert," was 
the low-breathed reply. 

''What mean you, madame?" 

" Must I speak more plainly 1 I offer you this 
hand — you have not sought it, but will you value 
less the gift which is freely and frankly proffered 
— the gift which will confer on you the right to 
love me as your wife 1 Nay, nay," continued the 
noble woman, as De Rocca, overcome by love and 
gratitude, and murmuring the incoherent words 



Gorinna. 101 

of passion, sank at her feet; ''pain me not by this 
wild emotion. I will be your wife, Albert; but 
there will be sorrow, and it may be shame, in our 
union, for the world must not know of the bond 
which unites us. For your sake, as well as for 
that of my children, I would shun the cold sneers 
of those who could not appreciate the pure ten- 
derness which binds our hearts. I dare not brave 
the ridicule of a world that looks only on the sur- 
face of things. I will be your wedded wife, De 
Rocca, but in secrecy shall you claim my faith, 
and while we will live for each other's happiness, 
we will wait until death has set the seal of un- 
changeable ness upon our hearts ere we suffer cold 
and scornful eyes to look upon our sacred bond 
of faith." 

A true and full biography of Madame de Stael 
yet remains to be written; but those who have 
gathered up fragments of her history — those who 
have dwelt with interest upon every detail of that 
gifted and extraordinary woman, whom Byron, 
after an intimate acquaintance, justly styled " the 
incomparable Corinna," will have no difficulty 
in discerning the truth of the foregoing sketch, 
through its adornments of fancy. The acquain- 
tance of Madame de Stael with De Rocca occurred 
under the circumstances I have related, and her 
marriage with him a few years afterward is also a 
matter of history. Their union was never pub- 



102 Corinna. 

licly acknowledged, although universally believed. 
They were devoted in their attachment to each 
other, and Corinna, wearied with the excitement 
of renown, enjoyed in the retirement of Coppet a 
few brief years of quiet domestic happiness. Her 
fears for De Rocca's failing health alone marred 
her peace, and yet he for whom only she seemed 
to live was destined to survive his gifted wife. 

Madame de Stael died on the 14th of July, 1817, 
and in her will she avowed her marriage, enjoin- 
ing it upon her children to make it known to the 
world. De Rocca survived her but six months; 
his overwhelming grief, acting upon a frame en- 
feebled by many wounds, soon destroyed him. 
He was nearly twenty years younger than the ob- 
ject of his passionate affection, having barely at- 
tained his thirtieth year at the period of his death. 
Madame de Stael was the mother of four children, 
to whose moral and intellectual culture she devoted 
great care. While she was in England she re- 
ceived tidings of the death of her second son, a 
youth of twenty, who was killed in a duel, his head 
being literally severed from his body by a saber 
cut. Her eldest child inherited the title of his 
father and the estate of his mother, and was noted 
for his zeal in the dissemination of the Bible 
throughout Europe. He is, I believe, since dead. 
The Duchesse de Broglie, her only daughter, died 
a few years ago, and how estimable was the wor- 



Cor i una. 103 

thy daughter of such a mother may be judged 
from the heartbroken expression of her husband, 
the excellent duke. " I am not blighted, but with- 
ered at the root," said he, when alluding to his 
bereavement. 

Auguste De Rocca, the only child of Madame de 
Stael's second marriage, still survives, and is said 
to inherit much of the wit and talent for which his 
mother was renowned. 





^oob.ies of tjjc Qi^inb. 

THE OLD PORTRAIT. 

We are the stuff 

That dreams are made of, and om' little life 

Is rounded by a sleep. 

WAS amused and interested by a dis- 
cussion which I heard a few days since, 
between two persons who were my near 
neighbors on board a — ferrj^-boat. 
They had been in close conversation when they 
entered the cabin, and as they did not lower their 
tones I soon discovered that the dapper, neatly 
whiskered, dogmatic little man beside me was a 
young physician who had just been ground out by 
the '^saw-bones" mill and was not yet sifted, if 
one might judge by the husks of learning which 
seemed mingled with the good grain. His com- 

104 




Moods of the Mind. 105 

panion, a modest, pale-faced, sickly-seeming Ger- 
maij, evidently regarded him with much respect, 
and listened to him as if there was no possible ap- 
peal from his opinions. 

" Depend upon it, sir/' said the doctor; '^depend 
upon it, there is a great deal of misconception 
about this matter; a person who dreams cannot 
be said to be asleep." (This was a startling propo- 
sition, by the way, to one who is an accomplished 
sleeper and a most inveterate dreamer.) ^^ You may 
rely upon it that no person ever enjoys a quiet, 
natural, healthful sleep if his mental faculties are 
awake," he continued, tapping his little cane most 
determinedly against the toe of his boot. 

^^ But," said the German timidly, ^' you surely do 
not mean to say that the habit of dreaming argues 
an unsound state of the physical system ! There are 
persons who enjoy the most robust health, and yet 
whose faculty for dreaming is almost an idiosyn- 
crasy." 

'' Impossible, my dear sir !" — and the doctor com- 
pressed his lips with the air of a man who knows 
he is right. '' The mental faculties slumber with 
the corporeal functions; the man who is under the 
influence of a profound, healthful sleep is, in a 
manner, dead to all impressions; unconsciousness, 
a total forgetfulness of every mental and bodily 
capacity, is necessary to the enjoyment of repose. 
No, sir; slumber may bring dreams, but sleep 



106 Moods of the Mind. - 

must be unbroken by the vagaries of the imagi- 
nation ; therefore a man is not asleep when he 
dreams." 

This was uttered in such Johnsonian style, there 
was such a bridling up of the neck, such a peculiar 
pigeon-breasted swelling out of the speaker's per- 
son, as if he would have said, 

I am Sir Oracle, and when I ope 
My mouth, let no dog bark, 

that his companion was silenced if not convinced. 
At this moment the boat touched the wharf, and I 
soon lost sight of the interlocutors ; but as I wended 
my way I could not help thinking how much cause 
I had to feel pity for myself; for, if the doctor's 
theory were true, from my childhood to the present 
hour I had never slept. 

Right sorry should I be to believe any such ma- 
terial doctrine. Sad, indeed, would be my privation 
if compelled to relinquish my nocturnal wander- 
ings in the fairyland of dreams. Surely, when 

Darkness shows us realms of light 
We never saw by day, 

we may rejoice in the brightness and beauty of 
that spirit-life which we can never enter while the 



Moods of the Mind. 107 

fetters of clay cling as closely as they do in our 
waking hours! Day has its cares and its toils, its 
anxieties and its doubts, its vexations and its sor- 
rows ; scarcely does a sun rise and set without the 
destruction of some fair scheme, the withering of 
some green hope. Amid the glare of sunshine we 
live, and move, and suffer j it brings us active, 
sentient life; but it is all external — the world 
claims us, a,nd the energies of the soul are all em- 
ployed by, and for the service of, the perishing 
body. But when night closes around us — when 
the brow of Heaven is wearing its coronal of stars 
— when the far-sweeping breeze comes with lulling 
music to the ear wearied with the turmoil of the 
world, then is it not sweet to lie down on our couch 
of nightly rest, and with the accents of prayer upon 
our lips, and thoughts of tenderness concentrating 
within our hearts like honey-dew in the petals of a 
flower, to close the eyes of the body in calm slum- 
ber, while the mind awakens in unfettered vigor to 
tread the realms of space and range the glorious 
spirit-land of dreams ! Strange that the mind has 
this power to roam at large ! strange that it is thus 
privileged to annihilate time and space in its un- 
checked career ! Yet methinks the only idea that 
a finite mind can form of infinitude is derived from 
this wonderful faculty, which enables us to con- 
dense a life into an hour. 



108 Moods of the Mind. 

Sleep has its own world, 
And a wide realm of wild reality, 
And dreams in their development have breath, 
And tears, and torture, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts. 
They take a weight from off our waking toils ; 
They do divide our being ; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
And seem like heralds of eternity. 

But there is another mood of mind far more 
wonderful than that which admits us through the 
ivory portal of dreams. There are moments when 
a peculiar retroversive vision is given to the sonlj 
when, amid scenes which have never before met 
the bodily eye, a sudden consciousness of a pre- 
existence in which they were once familiar comes 
over the spirit. Who has not experienced that in- 
stant insensibility to mere outward impressions, 
while the soul was looking back through the vista 
of memory and beholding there precisely the same 
objects which were vainly addressing themselves 
to the external senses ? Who has not paused in 
painful wonder at the discovery that the material 
things which surrounded him were but the tangi- 
ble forms of some shadowy reminiscence ? Who 
has not felt, at some especial moment, that the 
present was to him but a renewal of a bygone 
scene, and that his mind was wandering in a vague 
past, where all was dim, dark, and troublous to 
the spirit ? 



Moods of the Mind. 109 

The speculations into which my subject has un- 
consciously led me remind me of a singular in- 
stance of hallucination, or perhaps of clairvoyance 
— according as one chooses to determine— in the 
case of a personal friend, which occurred some 
years since. 

Mrs. L was one of the most quiet, gen- 
tle, womanly creatures that I have ever known. 
Intelligent and well informed, without being posi- 
tively intellectual in her tastes, her varied accom- 
plishments gave her brilliancy in society, while 
her kindliness of heart made her a decided favor- 
ite with all who came near enough to share it. 
With just enough imagination to adorn, but not 
to outshine, her other qualities, with sufficient sen- 
timent to give depth of tone to the lights and 
shades of her character, and destitute of a single 
strongly developed passion, she always appeared 
to me peculiarly happy in the possession of one 
of those unexcitable tempers which ever secure 
content. 

She was pensive more than melancholy, 
And serious more than pensive, and severe, 
It may be, more than either; 

and had I been called to designate one who looked 
neither into the vague past nor the dim future, 
but found enjoyment in the tranquil present, I 



110 Moods of the Mind. 

should have pointed to my pretty and agreeable 
friend. 

An incident, trifling in itself, bnt leading to a 
singular development of character, showed me the 
folly of thus judging of another's nature, espe- 
cially when we have never been admitted to the 
intimacy of friendship until after the door of the 
inner sanctuary of the soul was closed against 
earthly sympathies. 

It happened one morning that I accompanied 
Mrs. L to the rooms of a celebrated picture- 
dealer, whom she wished to consult respecting the 
framing of a valuable painting she had recently 
received from Italy. The virtuoso was absent, but 
learning that he was expected to be at home in a 
short time, we determined to wait, and in the 
mean time to amuse ourselves with the various 
articles of taste and fancy with which his apart- 
ments were filled. I had been for some time lean- 
ing over a scagliola table, absorbed in the study 
of some exquisite cameos, when an exclamation 
from my companion, who had been occupied with 
the pictures, aroused me from my abstraction. As 
I looked up I beheld her standing opposite a paint- 
ing, but her close bonnet entirely concealed her 
face from me, and conjecturing that she had dis- 
covered something of superior merit, I stepped up 
behind her to observe it also. 

It was only a portrait of a man in the prime of 



Moods of the Mind. Ill 

life : an old portrait, for the surface was in some 
places cracked and broken, while the unframed 
canvas showed on its edges the discoloration as 
well as the rents of time. But never did I see a 
face to which the doubly significant word ^' fasci- 
nating" could be so exactly applied. The broad, 
high forehead was bare, while the long chestnut 
curls which fell back from its expanse were so 
mellowed into the background of the picture that 
the outline of the head was undefined, and the 
charm of vagueness was thus given, as if the face 
was looking out from behind a curtain, or rather 
from the indistinct gloom of a chamber. The 
eyes were large, dark, and dreamy, with that sad 
but not sorrowful drooping of the delicately cut 
lids, that downward bend of the outer corner, 
which ever denotes the world- sated rather than 
the wounded spirit. But the mouth was the most 
peculiar feature, for the upper lip was curled like 
a bow at its utmost tension, and rested with so 
slight a pressure upon the full softness of its fel- 
low that one almost expected to see it expand with 
smiles at the beholder^s gaze. The rounded and 
beardless cheek was almost too massive in its 
downward sweep, and the chin, though Napoleon- 
esque in its outline, had that heaviness of finish 
which marks the influence of the animal nature j 
but the coloring of the face — its pale, clear, yet 
not effeminate hue — the dark, well-defined brows 



112 Moods of the Mind. 

arching over those superb eyes — the shadow 
flung upon the cheek by those fringed eyelids — 
the deep, rich color of the womanish mouth 
— the softness of the flesh-tints — and, above 
all, the almost serpent-like fascination of expres- 
sion which pervaded the whole countenance, all 
combined to form a most remarkable and beauti- 
ful physiognomy. The costume was that of the 
time of George II., and a diamond star on the 
breast of the gold-embroidered coat bore witness 
to the rank of him whose pictured semblance was 
without a name to designate its claims to our re- 
spect. Beautiful was that face in its calm immo- 
bility — how gloriously beautiful must have been 
the flashings of the soul through such exquisite 
features, when that eye was lighted up with life, 
and that lip was eloquent with passionate emo- 
tion ! Yet even while my fancy conjured up the 
image of such a being, those instincts which in 
woman^s heart are ever true, if the world have not 
checked their honest teachings, made me recoil 
from the creature of my imagination. Something 
in those delicate features, something in that sweet 
sadness of the eye and lip, something in the almost 
girlish hand which lay half hidden in its point- 
lace ruffle, seemed to speak of the voluptuary — 
of one who with the holy fires of intellect had kin- 
dled a flame on the altar of sensual and selfish 
indulgence. 



Moods of the Mind. 113 

But all these things were observed in much less 
time than is required for the description of them, 
and I was turning away with an expression of 
the mingled feeling that had been excited by the 
picture, when my attention was excited by the 

fixedness of Mrs. L 's attitude. Changing my 

position so as to obtain a view of her face, I was 
startled by the extraordinary change which had 
taken place in her appearance. With her tall 
figure drawn up to its full height, yet shrinking 
back as if alarmed, her arms folded tightly upon 
her bosom, and her hands grasping the drapery 
of her shawl, as if to veil herself from the eyes 
bent down upon her from the canvas, she stood 
entranced before the picture. Her face was ashy 
pale, her eyes dilated and vacant, her lips parted 
and almost livid in their hue, and her whole coun- 
tenance bore the impress of intense horror. 
Alarmed at her appearance, I addressed her, but 
without attracting her notice; I attempted to 
draw her away, but to my surprise I felt her arm 
as rigid as stone beneath my touch, while her 
whole attitude was that of one who is subjected 
to cataleptic influence. 

Gradually the spell which bound her faculties 
seemed to disperse, and as she slowly and sliud- 
deringly turned from the picture she fell almost 
fainting into my arms. 

''Let us go — quick — let us go!" she gasped; 



114 Moods of the Mind. 

and, terrified by her unusual agitation, I hurried 
her into the carriage. During our ride she did 
not utter a word, but when we reached her door 
she exclaimed, '' Do not leave me — I would not be 
alone just now"; and drawing her veil over her 
face, she hurried up to her apartment. As soon as 
we were alone and safe from intruders, she flung 
herself upon a couch and a violent flood of tears 
seemed somewhat to relieve the dreadful tension 
of her nerves. It was long before she recovered 
from her excessive agitation, and all my attempts 
to soothe her were utterly useless until she had 
exhausted her excitement by indulgence; then, 
when her emotion had subsided into the deep 
calm which conies from utter feebleness of body, 
she unfolded to me one of the strangest moods of 
mind that it had ever been my fortune to discover. 

''How long were we at Mr. 's room this 

morning?" she asked. 

" Perhaps a quarter of an hour," was my reply. 

" And how long did I stand before that dreadful 
picture f " 

" Not more than five minutes." 

''And yet in that brief space the events of a 
whole life passed before me." 

"Your thoughts must have traveled with a 
speed like that which transported Mahomet to the 
seventh heaven, and restored him to his couch, 
before the vessel of water which had been over- 



Moods of the Mind. 115 

turned in his ascent had lost one drop of its con- 
tents." 

" Nay, this is no jest ; it is to me sad and sober 

earnest. Let me teU yon, E , my ideas on the 

subject of preexistence." 

'^ My dear friend, you are nervous and excited; 
we had better not discuss such matters." 

^^You think me a little egaree—jon mistake; 
my nerves have been shaken, but my mind is per- 
fectly unclouded. Ever since I have been able to 
look into my own nature I have been convinced 
that my present life is only the completion of an 
earthly probation which was begun long, long 
since." 

" What do you mean ! You are surely not in 
earnest?" 

^'I never was more so in my life, and yet I 
scarcely know how to explain myself to you. 
There are persons who live and die with natures 
but half developed; circumstances call forth one 
set of feelings and faculties, while others are left 
dormant. Such I believe to be the case with the 
great proportion of men, and especially of women, 
in this world; and therefore it is that I have much 
charity for those who fall short of my standard of 
goodness, since there may be an infinite deal of 
latent virtue hidden in their hearts. But there 
are others among mankind who seem to have the 
use of only half their souls, not from the want of 



116 3foods of the Mind. 

development, but rather from exhaustion of the 
faculties. Among the latter class I rank myself. 
I am calm, cold, and passionless ; never violently 
excited, never deeply depressed; kindly in my 
feelings, and warm but not ardent in my affections. 
Yet do I often feel within me the faint stirrings 
of a wild and passionate nature : a throe of the 
spirit which tells, not of repressed emotion, but 
rather of half-extinct capacity for suffering. In a 
word, I believe that in a former state of existence 
I have outlived my passions. 

''You are surprised. I tell you my life is full 
of vague memories of a dark and troubled past. I 
am as one in a dream ; the things which surround 
me in actual life are entirely distinct from the ob- 
jects that are daily presented to my mental view 
as forming part of my existence. Often that 
strange, painful consciousness of some past scene 
precisely resembling the present comes over me, 
and I can scarcely determine whether it is the 
reality or the vision which most impresses me. 
My very affections seem to me rather like old 
habitudes of feeling, and when I look upon my 
children or listen to their merry voices, a dreamy 
consciousness of having, years since, heard the 
same ' sweet discord ' and gazed with a mother's 
pride upon creatures as fair and as dear, makes 
me doubt my own identity. 

''That which is vague is always terrible, and 



Moods of the Mind. 117 

my thoughts have gone out fearfully into that 
dark, cloudy past, seeking vainly to comprehend 
the wild memories that so disturb my present 
tranquillity. But to-day — to-day — I have seen a 
vision which has satisfied my quest. I had wan- 
dered listlessly about Mr. 's rooms this morn- 
ing, thinking only of beguiling the time until his 
return, when my eye fell upon the old portrait. 
You saw the effect it produced," — and she shud- 
dered at the recollection, — ^'but you could not 
know why it thus overpowered me. Now listen, 
and remember that I know well what I am saying; 
that I am perfectly calm and collected, and as sane 
in mind as yourself. 

" As my look became fastened on that superb 
face, a strain of low, unearthly music floated on 
the air, and suddenly I found myself in a gorgeous 
apartment, blazing with lights and filled with a 
gay company attired in the rich fashion of the 
olden time. A large mirror hung opposite me, 
and as I raised my eyes I saw reflected on its sil- 
very surface the image of a young girl moving in 
the stately mazes of the minuet with a handsome 
and graceful partner. I saw the blush which man- 
tled the maiden's cheek as her companion's deep, 
dark eyes rested upon her ; I beheld the quivering 
of her lip as she timidly replied to the courtly 
flatteries which were rather breathed than uttered 
from that exquisite mouth; I marked the trem- 



118 Moods of the Mind. 

bling of her hand as it touched his in the evolu- 
tions of the formal dance; the very beatings of her 
heart as it bounded against her jeweled bodice 
were visible to me. That maiden was myself ; not 
a lineament was changed ; it was myself, wearing 
the same freshness of tint and frankness of ex- 
pression as in the youthful portrait which hangs 
in yonder recess, differing only in the costume, 
which was that in fashion a century ago ; while 
he who was thus awaking me to a consciousness 
of passionate existence was the living semblance 
of that nameless picture. 

''Again that strain of music sounded; a mist 
came before my eyes, and as it cleared away I saw 
a wide and beautiful landscape. There were gent- 
ly swelling hills in the distance, enfolding, as it 
were, in their embrace one of those rich parks 
which are said to form so lovely a feature in Eng- 
lish scenery. Broad oaks stretched their gnarled 
branches over the soft, green turf, and here and 
there an antlered deer was seen bounding across 
the lawn-like verdure. But in the foreground of 
the picture was a closely shaded walk, where the 
boughs of the overarching trees had been carefully 
interlaced, so as to exclude every straggling ray 
of sunshine. A sweet and tender light, as soft as 
moonlight, but far warmer in its glow, filled the 
place, and there in that secluded spot sate a maiden 
on a mossy bank. The graceful form of her part- 



Moods of the Mind. 119 

ner in the dance was bending over her in the atti- 
tude of protecting tenderness, and as she lifted 
her face confidingly toward the eyes which seemed 
radiant with affection, as she met their glance, I 
again recognized my own features. 

'^ Once more that faint melody swept by ; again 
my eyes were darkened, and the next scene showed 
me the arrangements of a joyous bridal. A gay 
company were assembled in a small but beautiful 
chapel, and, as if power had been given to my men- 
tal vision to embrace all objects whether great or 
small, I could distinctly trace the rich carvings of 
the clustered pillars and the grotesque corbels of 
the groined roof, while the flickering tints which 
fell upon the snowy vestments of the bridal party^ 
from the stained-glass window behind the altar, 
added gorgeousness to the scene. As the newly 
wedded pair turned from the shrine, while merry 
friends pressed round them with looks of pride 
and joy, I beheld again the familiar faces which 
twice before had met my view. 

'^ But the vision faded, the figures vanished, and 
a cloud seemed to arise, in which only the noble 
face of the portrait was visible. Presently the 
cloud shifted, as if moved by a passing breeze, and 
my own face, pale, tearful, and sad, looked out 
from its dim shadow. Again the cloud closed over 
the apparition, and thus, folding and unfolding, 
as we often see the edges of a thundercloud in the 



120 Moods of the Mind. 

sky, it gave out alternate glimpses of the two faces 
as it altered its position and its form. But a 
change gradually came over the countenances of 
both ; my own became faded and sorrowful, while 
the cold sneer upon those bright lips, the keen 
glitter of those soft eyes, and an expression of bit- 
ter contempt in the scowl of that placid brow, con- 
verted its glorious beauty into the beauty of 
^ archangel ruined.' 

"Again came that tone of music, but it was 
now dirge-like and mournful as it trembled upon 
my ear. The shadow passed away, and I beheld a 
funeral bier. A rigid form lay extended upon it, 
and a child of some ten summers knelt beside the 
body, while her sunny curls mingled with the dark 
locks which lay so lifelessly on the brow of the 
dead. As the child raised her head to wipe away 
her gushing tears I beheld the face of the de- 
parted, and again did I recognize my own features. 
A feeling of irrepressible horror crept over me, 
but I was compelled to gaze, while slowly, and as 
if emerging from the darkness of the distant apart- 
ment, came out the shadowy face of that old por- 
trait, as if bending over the cold lineaments of 
death. 

^' At this moment you spoke to me, but I could 
not answer -, you touched me, but I was fixed and 
almost turned to stone ; nor could I move until the 
fearful vision had entirely vanished, and then, ex- 



Moods of the Mind. 121 

hausted and almost lifeless, I found myself rest- 
ing in your arms, with that cold, calm picture 
looking quietly down upon me from the wall." 

Such was my friend's account of this most ex- 
traordinary fantasy, and without pretending to 
trace its source, or to explain the probable cause 
of such a mood of mind, I would only add that it 
was followed by a severe attack of brain-fever. 
She recovered, however, and lived several years, 
but never again gave the slightest evidence of any 
tendency to the vague speculations of which she 
had spoken to me ; though, as I afterward learned, 
she had vainly endeavored to purchase the old 
portrait, which had been sold, during her illness, 
to some unknown picture-fancier. I pretend not 
to elucidate the mystery of her changeful vision, 
or to define my own belief in her fanciful creed of 
preexistence. It is enough for me to know that 
our dreams, whether they be waking visions or 
nightly slumbering fantasies, often 

Pass like spirits of the past, and speak 
Like sibyls of the future. 



Addressed to a Distant Friend. 



Out upon Time ! who forever will leave 

But euougli of the past for the future to grieve 

O'er that which hath been and o'er that which must be. 



-^OUR melancholy letter of self-condo- 
lence, my dear and most wayward of 
friends, your eloquent but unreason- 
able regrets at having passed through 
"life's midway turnstile'' (to use your own quaint 
version of the poet's " mezza del cammen di nostra 
vita"), have awakened in me a train of reflections 
which, for your punishment, rather than with any 
hope of your edification, I shall offer to your 
serious consideration. There are few things so 
little understood, and yet so indispensable to the 
comfort of every child of earth, as the art of 

122 




Growing Old. 123 

growing old. If I were a man (as, thank God, I 
am not; for among my many blessings I rank first 
that of being a woman), I would make it the sub- 
ject of a course of lectures; and should probably 
share the fate of other preachers, who, while eluci- 
dating truth, afford melancholy evidence, in their 
own persons, of the difficulty which ever attends 
its practical application. The reason why the 
matter now in question is so little comprehended, 
is very obvious. The subject is distasteful, and 
each one feels that there is yet full time for con- 
templating it afar off. We fancy ourselves still 
wandering on the confines of youth, or, at least, 
but just entering the dusty paths of middle life, 
when suddenly we find ourselves at the opening 
of a yawning ravine, down which we are irresisti- 
bly hurried by the crowd behind us ; and when we 
reach the cold, bleak, barren region of old age 
which lies below, we feel that we have yielded with 
an ill grace to the necessity which drove us from 
the busy scenes of active life. Age is certainly an 
evil, — necessary to our mortal being, doubtless, 
but only less terrible than death; and had not 
God implanted in our bosoms that strong love of 
life which makes us cling to mere existence, the 
King of Terrors would often be a less painful visi- 
tant than the graybeard Time. Who ever detected 
the first furrow on his brow, the first gray hair 
amid his flowing locks, without a pang! And yet 



124 Orotving Old. 

methinks it were pastime to grow old, if age were 
only an external evil. If the deepened lines of the 
face, the despoiled honors of the brow, the faded 
light of the eye, were the only changes which 
Time brings, we might learn to look on him with 
indifference. But, alas ! he bears away other treas- 
ures; he defaces the bright beauty of the casket 
while he steals some of the richest gems which it 
contains. We lose the unselfish enthusiasm of 
youth — its generous ardor, its sweet confiding 
trust ; we learn to question our own impulses ; 
and the lesson which teaches us to mistrust our 
own nature, like all the other lessons of skepticism, 
offers nothing in exchange for the faith it would 
disturb. '^ It seems to me,'' says the warm-hearted 
and joyous-tempered Mme. de Sevigne, '4t seems 
to me that I have been dragged against my will 
to the fatal period when old age must be endured. 
I see it, I have come to it, and I would fain if 
I could help it go no farther, nor advance an- 
other step in the road of infirmities, of pains, 
of losses of memory, of disfigurements ready to 
do me outrage; and I hear a voice which says, 
^You must go on in spite of yourself; or if you 
will not go on, you must die' ; and this is another 
extremity from which nature revolts. Such is 
the lot of all who advance beyond middle life. 
What is the resource ? To reflect on the will of 
God, and the universal law of being, and so restore 



Growing Old. 125 

reason to her dominion, and be patient." They 
who would grow old gracefully must equally avoid 
too much haste, and too much delay in their pro- 
gress. They must neither wait to be jostled aside 
by younger competitors in the race, nor must 
they fling off too soon the rose-chains which held 
them in sweet bondage amid the bowers of youth- 
ful happiness. Nothing is more disgusting than 
an imbecile aping of gaiety and folly in old age, 
and nothing more painful than ther premature self- 
ishness and calculation of age in the glad season 
of youth. If I were called to give one short and 
comprehensive rule for growing old properly, I 
would say, ^'Cherish that health which is the 
next best gift to that of youth; let the mind 
ripen fully and perfectly in the light of know- 
ledge; and above all things, keep the heart young 
by the constant exercise of kindly and genial 
sympathy.'' Even while I write, memory presents 
some lovely pictures of this youth in age which 
is ever so desirable. I behold a mother faded in 
beauty, but wearing upon her face that sweetness 
which emanates from the inner light of the soul. 
Her children are around her, and with the recol- 
lection of her own glad and wayward youth still 
fresh in her heart, she fully and entirely sympa- 
thizes with all. The workings of incipient vanity 
in one child, the gushing forth of passionate feel- 
ing in another, the proud and fiery temper of a 



126 Growing Old. 

third, perhaps the timid, facile temper of a fourth, 
or the generous, impulsive nature of a fifth, — all 
are understood, all are appreciated, all receive 
the indulgence due to weakness, and the gentle 
restraint necessary to future correction of error. 
She is the friend, the counselor, the confidante of 
her children, the tender elder sister rather than 
the rigid parent, guiding rather than controlling 
them, sharing their every j)leasure, bearing their 
every sorrow, and cherishing a youthfulness of 
heart amid the young which adds new grace to 
the matronly dignity and beauty of her perfectly 
consistent character. I can remember, too, an 
honored and venerable man, who in the decline of 
years, amid the seclusion of domestic life, still 
preserves the freshness of those fervent feelings 
which won for him the happiness which he now 
enjoys. In the youth of his children he reviews 
his own early life, in the exercise of hospitality he 
keeps alive his social virtues, in the duties of 
benevolence he finds an outlet for the impulsive 
generosity of his nature, in the daily exertion of 
his intellect he finds a safeguard against the 
corrosions of Time, — does such a man grow old 
because his eye is dim, his brow furrowed by the 
plowshare of age, and his frame bowed beneath 
the weight of years! But there are those who 
must grow old without any such means of renew- 
ing their life. There are hearts which find no com- 



Growing Old. 127 

panionship in wedded life, hearts which have felt a 
blight worse than the frost of years, hearts whose 
glad youth departed ere the shadow of Time's 
wing had darkened in their path. Yet even for 
them there is a fountain of freshness, a " diamond 
of the desert." To them are offered the pure delights 
of friendship, that sweetest of all forms of earthly 
affection, which is all of love but its selfishness, all 
of passion but its exacting spirit, all of tenderness 
but its weakness. 

I know not what may be the nature of friendship 
in the heart of man, but in the breast of woman 
I know it to be what I have depicted it. Love lives 
not without jealousy, which ever stalks beside it 
like its shadow, flinging gloom upon its brightest 
way. But friendship asks nothing, save to be 
allowed to serve; hopes nothing, save to be con- 
sidered of some import to the happiness of its ob- 
ject ; expects nothing, save to be remembered with 
tender regret when death shall have stilled the 
beatings of the warm heart, and the pulses of the 
ready hand. If I were a man, and knew of woman 
what my present experience has taught me (an im- 
possibility, by the way), I should prefer the deep, 
fervent friendship of a woman's heart to all the 
deceitful promises of love. After all, love is like 
grief — ^'it consumes or is consumed"; the wild, 
fierce, fiery passion, which makes every hour either 
a pang or an ecstasy, cannot last ; it is weakened 



128 Growing Old. 

by its own excess, and must either subside into a 
tame sentiment, or die away in utter indifference, 
if it be not merged in such a friendship. But the 
friendship which is born of esteem for high and 
noble qualities, which sees in its object something 
to be admired, respected, looked up to (I speak 
now of friendship between persons of opposite 
sex; and to be perfectly happy in any attachment, 
there must be a blending of reverence in woman's 
tenderness), which knows no jealous fears, no 
envious heart-burnings, which is full of self -for- 
getting affection, and yet asks no other return 
than the kindly word and the gentle tone — the 
friendship which is ever mingled with that innate 
principle of loving, so perfectly a part and parcel 
of her very nature — such is the true sweetener 
of life, such the only worthy object of attainment, 
such the only lasting passion. A woman need 
never suffer her heart to grow old. I care not 
how lonely be her lot, wherever she can find a home, 
there is always some brother or sister, a niece, 
or, it may be, a wayward nephew, or, at least, 
some of those '^ little people," whose claims upon us 
depend not on ties of blood, to occupy her inter- 
est. If ever a woman finds herself utterly lonely 
and unloved, depend on it, the cause lies, not in 
her unfortunate destiny, but in herself. Live 
without loving ! why, the thing is impossible. Me- 
thinks if I were the sole inhabitant of a desolate 



Growing Old. 129 

islaud in inid-oceau, I should find somethings over 
which to pour out the fullness of a j^earning heart. 
"Je meurs ou je m'attache " is a true woman's 
motto, and happy is she whose heart, while it 
clings like the ivy, finds something better than 
ruin and decay to support its entwining tendrils. 
A woman, I repeat, need never be a solitary being. 
In the cheerful stillness of her own thoughts she 
can be ever devising some good for others ; and 
if she never forgets that a woman is sent upon 
earth to minister comfort to the toilworn children 
of Adam; if she remembers that God has given 
her a nature which enables her to convert the curse 
pronounced upon our first mother into a boundless 
blessing; if she never forgets that they who ^' stand 
and wait" are numbered among the servants of 
the Most High, no less than those who do his bid- 
ding in the whirlwind and the storm, she will 
not repine at the destiny which gives her happi- 
ness just in proportion as she lives for others and 
not for herself. But with men, the case is some- 
what different. Few conditions can be more 
melancholy than that of a lonely man who has 
outlived all early associations; who has grown 
estranged by time and circumstance from the com- 
panions of his youth ; who enters not closely into 
the interests of a single one of God's creatures, 
and who is keenly conscious that to no one is he 
an object of real regard. Yet why should these 



130 Growing Old. 

things be so"? Why should man be so isolated an 
individual merely because he has no conjugal nor 
filial ties? Are there not other bonds of union 
which, if less closely woven, are still worth cher- 
ishing! It was but yesternight that one whose 
language is ever like the poetry of knightly days, 
stirring my heart at one time like the sound of a 
trumpet calling to the tourney, and anon melting 
me into sweet, regretful tears of tenderness — it 
was but yesternight he told me of a solitary man 
who bethought him of putting in practice the 
chivalry which is still extant in the world, albeit 
it is now hidden beneath a velvet vest instead of 
a mailed cuirass. This strange being became the 
friend, the guardian, over certain gentle and, I 
doubt not, lovely maidens, at their first entrance 
into life. His delight was to show them all that 
earth held of good, and to protect them from all 
that it contained of evil ; to watch over the devel- 
oping affections of those young hearts, and to 
guard them from the noxious influence of passion. 
A beautiful blending of the brother's watchful- 
ness, the father's tenderness, and the lover's jealous 
affection filled the heart of that solitary man. One 
after another the objects of his love were taken 
from him by happier and more fervent admirers ; 
and in every instance he felt for a time the keen, 
sharp pang of disappointed, or rather unsatisfied, 
love. Yet the pain was but a transient sorrow. 



Growing Old. 131 

for a consciousness of self-sacrifice, a pleasant 
sense of heroic devotion, which could silently re- 
linquish its own happiness for the object of its 
tenderness, became his solace. Another soon was 
found to take the place of the wedded one, and the 
same round of attentions, and watchfulness, and 
growing regard was again traveled. Thus passed 
the life of this eccentric but noble-hearted bache- 
lor; and who will say that he found not happi- 
ness! It is true that he stored up for himself a 
new sorrow with every affection ; but who would 
not prefer to suffer the pain of an overcharged 
heart, rather than the aching void of a vacant 
bosom? The old man found bliss beyond the 
capacity of common minds in these sweet ties, 
and when death summoned him to his reward in 
a better world, he was wept by gentle eyes and 
remembered by loving hearts. Tell me not, dear 
friend, of that solitary man who, years hence, will 
take his accustomed walk on the sunny side of the 
street, and who will pause, leaning on his cane, to 
watch the gambols of merry boys, perhaps to 
give a feeble impetus to their bounding ball as 
it passes him on its winged way, or it may be to 
aid the timid steps of a shrinking girl as she 
crosses the icy pathway, — tell me not of that man 
dwelling lonely and unsought in his secluded cham- 
ber, seeking his enjoyment only in remembrance 
of the past, and wasting the remnant of his days, 



132 Growing Old. 

like his own noble hound, in sluggishness and sun- 
shine. Tell me not that the time will come when 
his foot will cease to descend the stair, when his 
face will be missed from the accustomed walk, 
when the boys will wonder why they hear not his 
kindly greeting; and finally when the hearse and 
its few respectful followers will be seen bearing 
to their last resting-place the remains of him who 
amid the crowded city still dwelt in hermit-like 
solitude. Tears such as I have seldom shed 
would blind me could I believe such picture aught 
than the image of a mocking fancy. Rather let 
me take the pencil and try a woman's power. Let 
me imagine myself transported some thirty years 
hence to your distant city of refuge, the far-off 
home of your adoption. The scene is one of quiet 
enjoyment, a pleasant fireside, a cheerful apart- 
ment, books, pictures, deep, kindly-looking chairs; 
all the comforts, but none of the mere luxuries, of 
life are there; and two, who have grown old 
together, albeit the years of one, even as his 
virtues and his graces, outnumber those of his 
companion, are seated in gentle converse. The 
door opens, and the cherished friend of earlier 
days enters. He is a solitary man, but what warm 
and gushing affection is poured out at his feet. 
The impassioned poet, the daring hunter, the 
friend of the red kings of the soil, the embodi- 
ment of all that we can dream of chivalrous and 



Growing Old. 133 

noble, how can he be called solitary, when the very 
shadows of his brain have peopled the forest and 
prairie with beauty? His place is ever reserved 
in the hearts as at the fireside of those who love 
him. He is as one of that quiet household, free to 
go and come as he lists, but not from the indiffer- 
ence of habitual intercourse; no, his step is still 
listened for, his opinions treasured up, his deep 
and earnest tones still caught as eagerly as in the 
days of his youth. Anon enters another, in the 
full, deep light of whose lustrous and spiritual 
eyes may be read the refined and lofty soul of 
him whose earh^ life was like an acted poem, full 
of passionate sweetness, and whose gentle heart 
never knew a feeling which was not as abounding 
in human sympathies as in elevated purity. Two 
more are added to the little circle. The merry 
voice, the agile step of one is yet unchanged, and 
the wit ''wont to set the table on a roar," the 
quips and cranks of overflowing humor, the bril- 
liant scintillations of ready repartee, and the gen- 
uine kindness and warm-heartedness which per- 
vaded and shone through all his character, are 
no less remarkable than when, years before, he 
first charmed the mirth-loving fancy of the now 
sobered hostess. But of his companion how shall 
I speak ! how depict the softened, chastened beauty 
of that sweet matronly face! The tresses, once 
hanging in such luxuriance upon the peach-like 



134 Groiving Old. 

bloom of the rounded cheek, are now put back 
under a simple cap, but the soft dewy lip is still 
as bright as in her gentle youth: only the ex- 
panded proportions of that womanly form betray 
the lapse of time. Friend of my soul, what sayest 
thou to my gossiping? Why may we not have 
such a tableau vivant, if the stern mower whet not 
his scythe among us"? Why may not age find us 
with busy minds and young hearts? Why may 
we not meet in after years, even as now, and bid 
defiance to Time when he attempts to penetrate 
the stronghold of our affections? Hast thou not 
said that poetry is the true fountain of rejuvenes- 
cence? Let us then quaff deeply of its sweet 
waters, and while their subtle influence sends new 
life through our sluggish veins, we will forget 
"Time's takings," and only remember that the 
sweetest of all the treasures which he leaves is the 
love which was born for immortality. 





311 CJjaptet on ^tilcnc^^* 




PITY the being who is always busy, 
whose life passes in a perpetual buzz 
of activity, like that of a bluebottle 
fly in a sunshiny window-pane. I pity 
the man or woman whose days are consumed in a 
continual round of tasks, an unbroken series of 
employments, even though they be self-imposed, 
and apparently fully rewarded by the self-com- 
placent vanity of the busybody. I look upon the 
true enjoyment of an hour of idleness as an 
especial gift, a talent bestowed by nature, and as 
impossible to be acquired from habit or education 
as the dreamy fancy of the poet, or the graphic 
power of the painter. 

Wealth may purchase immunity from labor; the 
minion of luxury, like the voluptuous Hindu, 
may be borne over life's dusty pathway so gently 

135 



136 A Chapter on Idleness. 

that not even a crumpled rose-leaf mars his pro- 
found repose ; but he cannot taste the true delights 
of an hour of idleness. Like all other best bless- 
ings of earth, it is only to be bought at the ex- 
pense of toil. We must have spent hours in labor, 
the heart must have been fully occupied, the mind 
tasked to its utmost, and the body must have 
been the efficient minister to both, ere we can 
know the inestimable pleasure of perfect idleness. 
Then must come the entire cessation of fatigue, 
the gradual consciousness of repose-, the sensation 
of perfect rest which precedes and finally loses 
itself in the dreamy delights of reverie. There is 
yet another requisite to the full enjoyment of idle- 
ness. The idler must possess that poetic fancy 
which can people the void air with images of 
beauty; he must be able to find pictures in the 
changing clouds, music in the viewless wind, and 
harmony in all material things. He must have 
learned to bring up from the past its treasures, to 
look on the present with a loving eye, to gaze far 
out into the dim future with a hopeful spirit; he 
must be awake to the sweet influences of nature ; 
he must be alive to the high and holy impulses of 
humanity; he must have power to silence the 
demons of distrust and selfishness which haunt 
even the heart of man ; he must forget the frailties 
and the follies, the vices and the weaknesses, of 
his kind, and remember only that they are his 



A Chapter on Idleness. 137 

brethren. With such a man let us spend, in fancy, 
an hour of idleness. Where shall we go to shnn 
the turmoil of the world, which comes with harsh 
tumult to the ear of the dreamer? Let us enter 
an artistes studio, the abode of personified dreams, 
fitting place for pleasant meditation. How does 
the din of business die upon the ear as we ap- 
proach this noble Gothic pile! We ascend the 
quaint oaken staircase, we tread the cloistered 
galleries, while our light footsteps are echoed with 
that peculiar clearness of sound never heard save 
'4n the vaulted cell, where silence loves to reign." 
A door opens, and suddenly, as if a curtain 
which divides the material from the invisible 
world had been lifted, we find ourselves in the 
midst of images of beauty. Now seat thee, gentle 
idler, in that rich and cunningly wrought chair, 
carved with a skill but rarely practised in modern 
days, and its armorial crest, graven deep in the 
costly wood, will tell thee whence it came; for 
even as it now appears, so did it once grace the 
banquet-hall of a stately castle in sunny Prance; 
seat thyself in that old chair, and then thou wilt 
be not only surrounded, but literally embraced by 
associations of the past. How does every turbu- 
lent thought grow still, as we gaze around this 
peopled apartment! Seen in the cool, dim, reli- 
gious light which is diffused around, the pictures 
would seem like beings of living and breathing 



138 A Chapter on Idleness. 

loveliness, save that they wake not the vague, 
wild wishes which in the presence of beaiity ever 
stir and trouble the human heart. Mark the noble 
face which bends from yonder canvas: that bright 
and flashing eye has gazed upon the mysterious 
pyramids of Egypt ; that delicate hand has drawn 
bridle-rein on the plains of Palestine; that fair 
cheek has been kissed by the same sun which once 
awakened the music of Memnon's harp. Look, 
too, upon, that portraiture of earnest and gracious 
womanhood, which appears half withdrawing from 
our gaze: the deep-set intellectual eyes would 
seem to disclaim the playfulness which lurks upon 
the lips, did not an indescribable expression of 
impulsive sympathy pervade the whole counte- 
nance, and harmonize its mirthf ulness and thought. 
It is the faithful semblance of one on whom 
Heaven has bestowed high and holy gifts — of one 
whom 'Hhe strong necessity of utterance" (to use 
her own beautiful phrase) has urged to lay many 
a rich and acceptable offering on the altar of 
Fame. 

And lo ! another, whose youthful beauty might 
look like that of opening girlhood, did not those 
sweet eyes and the gentle curve of the rosy mouth 
betray the exquisite tenderness of nature which 
only belongs to the happy wife and mother: 
observe those golden curls dropping over the 
delicately tinted cheek, and tell me if Fancy does 



A Chapter on Idleness. 139 

not image under such a form the holy and sinless 
mother to whom • 

It would not be idolatry to kneel ; 

while we thank the Giver of all good that such 
blessed and passionless creatures are sometimes 
allowed to dwell upon this blighted and blasted 
earth. Far off, amid dusky shadows, gleam out 
the features of one early numbered with the dead : 
he died, and left no trace, but memory's haunted 
cell gave out his semblance to the eye of friend- 
ship, and again he lives in the bright colors of un- 
fading youth. We see the eagle eye which once 
flashed with the souPs lightnings; the passion- 
molded lips which were once eloquent with the 
genius and the fire of that land whence he drew 
his birthright of intellect. Alas! his life was one 
of toil and weariness and heaviness of spirit, 
until by the wayside he fell, and perished ere the 
goal of his hopes was won. Behold the face of 
him whom America is proud to claim as her first 
of philosophic poets ! The world has traced stern 
characters on his brow, but here, as if his soul 
had felt the influence of the place, his eye is 
lighted up with the rich ray of intellect, and he 
looks as one might fancy he must appear when, 
in his seclusion, he calls up those glorious thoughts 
and noble images of moral and natural beauty 
which are ever embodied in his verse. He is here 



140 A Chapter on Idleness. 

the poet, not the partizan — the Tyrtaeus, inspir- 
ing men to lofty deeds by the solemn music of his 
hymns f not the Demosthenes, arousing their pas- 
sions by the thunder of his philippics. Beside 
him, and in most strange contrast to the calm im- 
mobility of that mind-fraught face, beam forth 
the features of one who has peopled the forest 
and the prairie with images of beauty. Well does 
that noble and spirited portrait depict the beauti- 
ful blending of the genial and the intellectual, 
which is as visible in the countenance as it is re- 
markable in the character of him whose exquisite 
songs have given to Anacreon Moore the only 
rival worthy to dispute with him the palm of 
lyric excellence. 

Does not a sad and solemn earnestness fill our 
hearts as we gaze on the lustrous and spiritual 
eyes which seem to follow us from yonder can- 
vas? Such eyes never belonged to one whose 
thoughts dwelt amid outward things; their light 
is but the reflex of the flame kindled by God him- 
self within the soul. How characteristic — aye, 
even to the delicate beauty of the hand which has 
penned so many pure and beautiful thoughts — is 
that pictured semblance of him who has "kept 
the whiteness of his soul," and, untainted amid a 
world of falsehood, has ever been true to the 
heaven-born instincts of his nature! Art thou 
weary, friend, of the mere shadow of reality? 



A Chapter on Idleness. 141 

Wouldst thou leave the images of actual life for 
the creatures of Fancy's realm ! Then turn to the 
inspired Sibyl — a poet's fancy traced by a paint- 
er's hand; gaze with me upon yon star-crowned 
Beatrice, the cherished idol of Dante's haunted 
heart; or watch the flashing yet tearful eye of 
Darthula, as she presses onward to avenge her 
lover's fall. Hast thou not now drunk deeply of 
the joy of idleness P 

It may be that thy spirit pants for larger free- 
dom; it may be that only under the open heaven 
thou canst feel the full enjoyment of thine idle 
hour. Then hie thee to that sweet spot where 
King Death, laying aside his insignia of terror, 
reigns as a sylvan monarch over a domain of 
beauty. Wander through the winding walks of 
Greenwood, until the influences of the place have 
chastened thy feelings into quietude; then cast 
thyself on yonder knoll, and look upon the scene 
beneath. Nay, do not turn thy steps to the silver 
lake, that mirror set with emeralds ; it is beauti- 
ful, I grant, but coarse minds have learned to 
appreciate its loveliness, and anon the tramp of 
prancing horses, or the tread of busy feet, — may- 
hap the idle jest and merry laugh, — will echo from 

1 Those who have recently visited the studio of Mr. C G. 
Thompson, at the New York University, will have no difficulty 
in discovering from what source were derived the materials for 
the foregoing sketch of one of the most nobly peopled apart- 
ments that the writer ever entered. 



142 A Chapter on Idleness. 

its oozy margin. Lie upon the grassy knoll that 
overhangs the path; the clear water, reflecting 
every bird that skims the surface, is before you, 
while the monumental stones which mark the last 
resting-place of mortality shine out from the rich 
shrubbery beyond. The air is redolent of music 
and fragrance; the breath of the scented clover 
fills the gale; the song of the bird and the hum 
of the bee swell upon the breeze ; the tremble of 
so many myriads of leaflets around is as audible 
as the hum of insect life. With the soft and 
velvet greensward for thy couch, the blue sum- 
mer sky smiling above thy head, the whisper of 
the refreshing south wind lulling thee to sweet 
repose, and all this wondrous wealth of nature 
spread before thy half -shut eye, — then yield thy- 
self to the enjoyment of thine hour of idleness. 
Alone — alone with thy God — alone in the gar- 
den of death, with trophies of his power gleam- 
ing from every thicket, thou mayest "commune 
with thine own heart and be still.'' Wilt thou 
not rise from such fellowship a wiser and a better 
man? Will not thine hour of idleness be one of 
good likewise ? Wilt thou not return to the world 
saddened and purified in spirit, and with a faith 
which all the weary tasks of this working-day 
world can neither weaken nor discourage? In 
our country, where everything is to be obtained 
by industry, and nothing can be won without it, 



A Chapter on Idleness. 143 

we are apt to become mere operatives. So much 
may be gained by toil that we learn to despise 
those amenities of life which interfere with the 
rough task-work we have prescribed to ourselves. 
Unlike the inhabitants of other climes, who work 
only to live, we seem to live only to work ; and 
while we despise the ill-fed, ill-clad lazzarone who 
lounges on the steps of some ducal palace, en- 
joying the idleness which is to him far more es- 
sential than the gratification of his appetite, we 
forget that, between the indolence which casts its 
mildew over every energy of the soul, and the 
untiring activity which wears out the springs of 
life by over-toil, lies the true medium. 

Yet how much of picturesque and poetic beauty 
surrounds the daily walks of that contemned son 
of the sweet south ! From his very infancy the 
Italian beggar has been familiar with images of 
loveliness. A master-hand has depicted the per- 
sonification of holy womanhood in the sweet Ma- 
donna to whom his prayers are addressed; the 
old cathedral at whose shrine he prostrates him- 
self is filled with treasures of sculpture and paint- 
ing, such as wake the wildest enthusiasm even in 
those who, ^'cold in clime, are cold in blood." 

The ancient glories of his country are still seen 
in the wonders of architectural grandeur on which 
his eye ever rests with pride and pleasure; and 
over 'all these riches of art, over all these mag- 



144 A Chapter on Idleness. 

nificent remains of genius and power, bends a 
sky of such transparent purity that simple life — 
mere breath — in such an atmosphere is happi- 
ness. He has dwelt amid such things until their 
shadow has fallen upon him, and in his chis- 
eled features, his lofty bearing, his graceful dig- 
nity of mien, we recognize none of the sordid 
poverty which is his only birthright. Give to 
such a being his dish of macaroni, his pure 
draught of aqua fresca, and the shady side of 
some antique column, or the cool retreat beside 
some gushing fountain, where he may enjoy the 
" dolce far niente '' which makes up his sum of 
human happiness, and he asks no richer boon. 

Who will say that the gift of comforts and 
riches and honors would not overcloud his life 
with misery, if with them was linked the stern 
necessity of labor, and banishment from the beauty 
of art and nature which surrounded him in his 
abasement I Let not the cold utilitarian who 
measures the value of a man, as he would that of 
a beast of burden, by his capacity for toil — let him 
not sneer at the luxurious enjoyment which may 
be tasted by a beggar. Compare the condition of 
this idle, reckless, useless being with the honest, 
hard-working laborer of that land which in the 
old times of serfdom and feudal slavery was called 
(and justly too) merry England. 

Look at the stultified countenance, the bowed 



A Chapter oh Idleness. 145 

frame, the broken health, the crushed spirit of 
him who has known nothing but toil; of him 
who only exchanged an infancy of hardship for a 
manhood of labor and privation and profligacy; 
of him who has been trained up to become but a 
part, a single part, of the vast machine which the 
wealth of the few has framed at the expense of 
the many; of him whom long-continued task- 
work has reduced to the condition of a mere 
animal, who drags through a miserable existence, 
only diversified by the debauch, and relieved by 
the unrefreshing slumber of intemperance or ex- 
haustion. Look at the condition of him whose 
powers of endurance are made subjects of medical 
investigation, in order that not an iota of his 
physical strength shall be unemployed; whose 
thews and sinews are tried by the test of selfish 
cupidity, until the last ounce-weight crushes the 
sinking frame; whose mind is slowly but surely 
darkened over by the mists of ignorance and vice, 
until each lingering trace of the image of God is 
shut out forever; of him whose death is what we 
shudder to contemplate. 

You may say the English operative is the more 
useful member of society. In one sense he is; 
he is more useful to his taskmaster, he performs 
more actual service, even as the horse or the ox 
who patiently treads the stubble and drags the 
plow. But is this all that is required? Were 



146 A Chapter on Idleness. 

men sent into the world to live at another's bid- 
ding? — to delve the mine, and die within its poison- 
ous vapors, that a more successful brother may 
inhale the balmy airs of Fortune's fair domain? 
Can the soul which is thus trampled under foot of 
the oppressor retain one spark of the ethereal fire 
which was breathed into it by the beneficent 
Creator! Is not the sentiment of religion which 
fills the mind of the indolent and, it may be, 
bigoted beggar, who feels the bounty of Heaven in 
the genial breeze which chills not his unsheltered 
form, who beholds its power in the miracles of 
nature, and who sees its glories in the visible 
objects of his daily worship — is not this merely 
poetic sentiment of piety better than the dogged, 
stupid, brutal ignorance and recklessness of him 
w^ho never knew one idle hour in which to look 
into the mystic volume of his own wayward heart ? 
Few persons ever yielded themselves up to the 
enjoyment of an idle hour such as I have described 
without deriving benefit from it. There comes to 
all of us a time when the world seems to darken 
around us, when cares press wearily upon the 
spirit, when the eyes are heavy with the weight of 
unshed tears, when the brow aches beneath its 
burden of sad thought, when the din of ceaseless 
duties has dulled the mental ear, and the recurring 
round of business has dimmed the intellectual 
vision. All day the work goes on, and nightfall 



A Chapter on Idleness. 147 

finds us still paiufully busied. But night closes 
in, the shadows deepen around us, and as the 
light of Heaven darkens without, the fire upon 
our household hearth seems to grow brighter. 
Familiar objects in our quiet apartment assume 
that dusky indistinctness which is to material 
things what the mistiness of romance is to the 
moral world ; the dull-red firelight diffuses itself 
more widely ; the tall, ghostly statue which looked 
coldly and unsympathizingly upon us in the glare 
of day, now, in its depth of shadow, and tinted by 
the mellow glow, wears the semblance of a gentle 
friend; the books which, but an hour since, 
seemed to look down upon us frowningly, as if in 
scorn of our baser thoughts, now cluster together 
in pleasant communion, wooing us to share their 
banquet; the old chairs seem to hold out their 
cumbrous arms invitingly; and, ere we are con- 
scious of the change, we have passed from sadness 
and despondency to dreamy and delicious reverie. 
It may be that something too trivial to be noted 
has called up memories of the past, and we are 
once more lapped in the Elysium of early happi- 
ness. It may be that the loved and lost gather 
around us ; we behold the " dear, familiar faces " 
which beamed sunshine upon us in the days of 
passionate emotion ; we clasp the warm hand 
which death has long since touched with ice; we 
hear the gentle tones which, save to our hearts, 



148 A Chapter on Idleness. 

have long been hushed in silence. The tide of 
years is rolled back, the treasures of wrecked 
affection are once more revealed to our eyes ; we 
are once more children on the shores of Time. 
What though the awakening from such a dream 
be pain, sharp and bitter pain? Have we not 
been withdrawn for one blissful hour from the 
carking cares which waste but never purify the 
heart ? And do we not return to our duties with 
a thoughtful but quiet spirit, blessing Grod that 
the troubles of this life last but for a season, and 
that though ^^ heaviness endureth for a night, 
joy cometh in the morning"! Or suppose that, 
during our hour of reverie, the thoughts look out 
into the vague Future. Our first gaze may meet 
only dim and dusky forms of fear rather than of 
hope; but gradually the darkness clears away, 
the mists disappear, and the shadows of beauty 
come out from the gloom, like the phantasmagoria 
which amused our childhood. Half-formed pro- 
jects wear the semblance of perfected and success- 
ful schemes, good resolves appear like noble 
actions, unfledged fancies seem plumed with angel 
pinions, and the heart-warm affections which we 
are scattering like rose-leaves on the blast, there 
seem gathered into unfading garlands. The sweet 
and musical voice of Hope is singing her quiet 
song in our enchanted ears, nor do we listen less 
gladly to the strain because it is blent with a tone 



A Chapter on Idleness. 149 

caught from memory's pleasant sadness. If the 
world wears no longer the rosy hues of romance, 
it is at least tinged with the warm and mellow 
light which emanates from our household fire, 
and we awaken from our hour of idleness only to 
return to busy life with fresh hopes and higher 
aspirations. Tell me not that such dreams are 
vain, that they are but the offspring of brain-sick 
fancy, that they enervate the soul, even as the 
opium-draught destroys the body. If the mind be 
justly balanced, if the hours of active employment 
be properly proportioned to the hours of idleness, 
if life be made a succession of useful deeds and 
noble thoughts, if the indulgence of imagination 
gives a higher tone and loftier aim to the claims 
of duty and of necessity, then are they not mis- 
spent and wasted moments. Give me full employ- 
ment for mind and heart, task my physical powers 
to their utmost endurance, let me wear my life out 
in the humblest drudgery of existence, and I would 
bear all with patience if I could but reserve the 
occasional luxury of an idle hour, the priceless 
enjoyment of poetic reverie. 



€l)c ^5pirit^25oitti* 



A Fantasy. 

In immeasurable heights above us, 
At our first birth, the wreath of love was woven, 
With sparkling stars for flowers. — The Piccolomini. 

Those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain-light of all oui' day; 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence. — Wordsworth. 



HERE is in my possession a very curi- 
ous book, published some thirty years 
ago, of which I have never seen but a 
single copy. It is entitled, '' La Pittura 
parlante, ovvero II Cuore et lo Spirito^'; which 
may be literally translated, ^'The Speaking Pic- 




The Spirit-Bond. 151 

ture, or The Heart and the Mind." What was the 
actual end and aim of the writer, I cannot pre- 
tend to determine, for the work is extremely des- 
ultory in its character, and evidently unfinished 
in its design. Perhaps there may be a later vol- 
ume necessary to the full understanding of the 
one now in question ; but if there be such a one, 
I have not yet met with it. The book is filled 
with graphic sketches of romantic incidents, and 
reminiscences of impassioned feelings; it is just 
such a book, in short, as a truthful picture of the 
heart and mind must ever be,— disclosing many a 
by-past error, unveiling many a scarce suspected 
weakness, and arresting many a speculative fancy. 
From among the various strange things which 
pleased me in the volume, I have selected one, 
rather because it was quite unconnected with 
other parts of the work than from its actual su- 
periority. It seems like an attempt at developing 
one of the most beautiful of our fanciful theories 
of a higher state of being; and in thus offering to 
the reader a literal translation of this '' Wander- 
ing of the Mind," I would premise that I have 
left the main part of the work as yet untouched. 
I would not destroy a fine piece of mosaic for 
the sake of exhibiting its component parts, but I 
would not hesitate to pick up a pebble which the 
workmen had thrown carelessly aside ; and thus 
have I done with this glimpse into preexistence. 



152 The Spirit-Bond. 

In the boundless realms of space, far, far be- 
yond the blue ether which confines the limited 
vision of man, lies the beautiful world where 
abide the spirits destined to inhabit mansions of 
flesh in this lower sphere. Perpetual spring reigns 
in that clime of eternal youth. Fadeless flowers, 
renewed in fresh beauty by the sweet breath of 
the evening breeze which closes their delicate 
petals in slumber, enamel the verdant meads; 
fruits, such as had their birth in Eden, blush 
upon every bough j trees of rare beauty, wear- 
ing every tint of that sweet color which we mor- 
tals fancy to be most symbolic of hopefulness, 
stand in changeless verdure; pellucid streams 
murmur placidly along their grassy banks, or 
break with pleasant and soothing melody upon 
the pebbly strand. All things are young, all 
things are beautiful. The sweet changes of the 
rosy dawn, the fervent noontide, and the dewy 
twilight relieve by their varied loveliness the sweet 
monotony of existence. Night alone — dark, sin- 
veiling, passion-curtaining night alone — is suf- 
fered not to shroud with its blackness the glorious 
bowers of juvenescence. Here in these scenes of 
bliss dwell the pure and sinless souls which come 
fresh from the hand of the Almighty, the be- 
ings of his breath, creatures made in his image, 
and bearing upon their unsullied brows the signet 
of Eternity. Here dwell they in happiness, deep, 



The Spirit-Bond. 153 

calm, unutterable, until the moment ordained for 
their entrance into mortal life — the moment when 
the joys of a sinless nature must be resigned for 
the duties of an earthly mission. Here dwell they 
in the perfect peace of love and unity, for never 
are they placed in solitariness amid these lonely 
shades. Twin-born, they dwell in pairs, bound 
together by a sense of inseparable oneness, a 
consciousness of simultaneous existence 5 and as 
indissolubly united are those twin spirits in that 
fair world, as are the soul and body during their 
continuance in this world of sin and sorrow. Two 
such spirits suddenly found themselves in ex- 
istence. They knew not how, they asked not 
whence, they came ; to be, was sufficient for their 
happiness. 

They lived — they loved; for in that pure region 
Life was but another word for Love. They had 
awakened, as from a deep sleep, to find themselves 
among creatures resembling their own bright 
beauty, and a choral hymn of joy had welcomed 
the advent of the newly created spirits. From 
that moment they were sentient beings, and the 
measure of their peaceful days was mutual love. 
They knew no name, these twin-born spirits. '' My 
Soul,'' ^^Life of my Soul," '^ Light of my Life," 
^^ Mine own sweet Self," — such were the epithets 
which each bestowed upon the other. Alike were 
they, too, in form and visage, save that the one 



154 The Spirit-Bond. 

had the broad front and noble proportions which 
in this world appertain to stately manhood, while 
the other was lower of statnre, finer in the delicate 
symmetry of limbs, and wore a meek, up-looking 
tenderness in her bright face. Both were fair, 
for were they not the untainted, unsullied crea- 
tures of Grod's hand? Both were goodly to look 
upon, for were they not sinless and passionless? 
Happy, thrice happy were those twin souls in that 
glorious realm of beauty and of love. Few words 
were needed to express their joyfulness, for they 
were ever side by side, and the look which beamed 
from the earnest eyes of one saw its own reflection 
in the tender glances of the other. Alas! why 
were they allowed to be so happy ? Why were be- 
ings already preordained to suffer all the chances 
and changes of this mortal life — why were they 
filled with such unutterable joy ? Why were they 
placed in those regions of bliss, since they were 
destined so soon to leave those sweet retreats for 
the bleak, cold wilderness of earth ? Peace, vain 
questioner ! Seek not to read that which is wisely 
hidden from thine eyes. Look into thine own 
heart, and be still 5 for there will be found the re- 
sponse to aU that thou canst ask. When the cup 
of earthly felicity has been brimmed to thy thirst- 
ing soul, has not the wild yearning for some bliss 
unattained and unattainable made the rich draught 
almost tasteless! And what was that but a long- 



The Spirit-Bond. 155 

ing for the forgotten Amreeta cup from wliicli thou 
once didst quaff, and whose sweetness yet lingers 
on thy unsated lips "? When all that earth can give 
of glory and honor gathers around thy head, does 
not a vague and undefined vision of something 
higher still come before thy mental vision, and 
with its nobler brightness dim the splendor of thy 
groveling pride"? When misfortune comes upon 
thee, when the blackness of darkness overshad- 
ows thee, and no help or hope seems present with 
thee, hast thou not lifted up thine eye to heaven, 
and sought to image the peace which belougeth to 
the children of God, the peace which seemeth to 
thee less a fancy than a remembrance, the peace 
which in thy state of sinlessness thou didst once 
enjoy? Aye, to each and all of us have come 
these pure aspirations; and how could our dull 
and blunted faculties have ever been awakened to 
such lofty visions, if we had not once known what 
" it hath not entered into the heart of man to con- 
ceive " ? How could our groveling human nature 
be ever raised from the mire of sensual indulgence, 
and lifted up to grasp the hope of immortality, if 
a dim foreknowledge of its joys did not aid our 
trembling faith f 

The time came when the twin-born were to enter 
upon their mission of duty and suffering. Igno- 
rant of the future as of the past, and dwelling in 
sweet enjoyment of present peacefulness, they saw 



156 The Spirit-Bond. 

not the approaching sorrow. They had wandered 
together beneath the noontide glow of sunshine 
nntilj wearied with very joy, they sank to repose 
beside a murmuring rivulet, which sang its quiet 
song amid the painted flowers. Clasped in each 
other's arms, the gentler and fairer spirit reclined 
her head upon the broad breast where she had 
ever found protection, and while his lips pressed 
her brow with the pure, fervent, passionless ten- 
derness of a brother's love, the wings of sleep over- 
shadowed them. Deep and tranquil was their 
slumber ; no evil thing came nigh those innocent 
and loving creatures ; no prophetic dream sent the 
image of coming sorrow into their hearts. At 
the very hour when these fair creatures reposed 
in their gentle beauty amid the amaranth bowers 
of eternal youth, — at that very hour a voice of 
wail awoke in two of those little communities, 
those pretty microcosms of earth, which we call 
families. The half-suppressed moan of bitter 
anguish was heard, and pale and ghastly with 
mortal pain were the faces of those on whom the 
curse of womanhood had fallen in all its deepest 
bitterness. But when did the judgment of God 
pronounce a curse which his mercy did not con- 
vert into a blessing on the children of Adam? 
The anguish has passed away, the feeble voice of 
prayer and praise ascends to Heaven; for the 
passionate and loving human hearts are thanking 



The Spirit-Bond. 157 

God for the children which have that day been 
born unto the world. Fearful in its agony was 
the awakening of those twin-born souls to mortal 
existence. They had closed their eyes in slumber 
amid all beautiful and glorious things ; they had 
lain down in peace and joy, happy and united as 
at the moment of their creation. They awoke to 
a sense of insupportable pain ; a weight was upon 
their free limbs ; and the wings which had once 
borne them through the ambient air were fallen 
off. Their eyes looked out from dim and narrow 
loopholes, and beheld objects dark, gloomy, and 
strange. Their voices issued in a shrill and dis- 
cordant wail from lips distorted by suffering. 
They were imprisoned in flesh, bound in the fet- 
ters of clay, and their feeble and impotent strug- 
gles to free themselves from these frightful bonds 
seemed only the unmeaning gestures of a new- 
born babe. Their first consciousness was of pain, 
bodily pain, which till now they could not know; 
but the next sensation — and it was the most agon- 
izing — was that of being torn asunder from each 
other. Their earthly existence was begun; the 
twin-born souls were dissevered; each was in a 
prison-house alone ! — alone ! — chained down to 
suffer, to live, and to die alone ! Oh, what bright 
and beautiful dreams came to the fancy of these 
wailing infants as they lay in feeble helplessness 
amid those who were henceforth to be their friends 



158 The Spirit-Bond. 

and kindred ! How many recollections of their 
prior life brightened their slumbers, and added 
new pangs to their waking hours ! How many a 
gleam of heavenly light from the Paradise they 
had left still lingered upon their enchanted souls ! 
Yet each knew nought of the other, for their spir- 
itual nature was now confined within the narrow 
limit of mortal perceptions. Oceans and moun- 
tains — barriers which in their preexistent state 
would have been overpassed with the speed of 
thought — now lay between those twin-born be- 
ings who had once breathed with but one impulse. 
The weight of an oppressive burden crushed their 
souls within them ; their very voices seemed strange 
unto themselves, for how could they utter the dic- 
tates of a pure nature through the imperfect or- 
gans of feeble mortality? Well is it that all 
earthly suffering is subject to earthly changes. 
Well is it that in putting on its garments of flesh, 
the spirit learns to love its thraldom. Well is it 
that human anguish is linked with human fickle- 
ness and forgetfulness. Well was it that the re- 
membrances of their beautiful world grew fainter 
and fainter, as the hues of Paradise faded from 
their souls 5 and that, ere they had learned the 
articulate shaping of their viewless thoughts, the 
twin-born had forgotten their birthplace. Time's 
ceaseless course went on, and the years, which had 
once fleeted like days in that higher world, now 



The Spirit-Bond, 159 

lagged slowly on, until infancy had given place 
to youth. He whom we have called the manlier 
spirit was on earth known by the name of Ernest; 
and goodly was he to look upon, for the spirit 
within him shone through his noble beauty, and 
illumined it with heaven's own light. Gifted with 
genius and with goodness, lofty in principle, gen- 
tle and tender in heart toward everything that 
lived, he was also proud, impetuous, wilful, and 
wayward. Yet the frailties of humanity were in 
him as the rust-spots on his own polished breast- 
plate — but for the brightness of the surface they 
had never been discovered. To see him was to 
admire him ; to know him was to love him. His 
words, winged by glorious thought, were borne 
far and wide through the world ; and ere he had 
reached the maturity of manhood, he had attained 
an eminence which to others would have cost a 
lifelong travail. Different, and yet most strangely 
similar, was the character of his twin sister in the 
spirit. That which in Ernest was genius, in Er- 
nestine never rose beyond the aspirations after a 
higher existence. The intellectual power which 
remained to him of his former state of being, in 
her was only beautiful remembrance. He sought 
to create, and thus add intensity to an existence 
which he felt to be lower than his own nature, 
while she wished only to preserve within her heart 
of hearts the pure tenderness which makes this 



160 The Spirit-Bond. 

life so sweet a scene of ministry to woman. He 
would fain have made the creatures of his brain 
to wear the semblance of real and living claimants 
on human sympathy, and with him to will was to 
do ; while she only hoped to awaken in other breasts 
those gentle impulses that thrilled her own. Both 
were ambitious, but the one sought renown, the 
other regard. Both were successful, and both 
lived to feel the vanity of their wishes. Wonder- 
fully alike were they in their strong will, their 
generous impulses, their impassioned tenderness 
of nature, their waywardness of fancy, their fine 
sense of justice, their truthfulness, their pride, 
and their longings for a higher state of being. 
But Ernestine was most unlike, in outward seem- 
ing, to him of whom she had once been the mir- 
rored self. Dwarfed and unlovely in person, with 
a look of habitual suffering in her pale face, she 
had lost all that glorious beauty which had been 
hers in her spiritual existence. She was a woman, 
and deeply sensible of the value of woman's gifts 
and graces ; she was a woman, and keenly alive to 
her own personal defects. Can it be doubted that 
Ernestine was unhappy! They had counted a 
score of years when, by one of those strange 
events which wear to mortals the semblance of 
chance, the twin-born met for the first time upon 
earth. All trace of their spirit-bond had long 
since faded from their hearts, and they were now 



The Spirit-Bond, 161 

as strangers to each other. Ernest gazed with 
compassion, half kindly, half contemptuous, upon 
the pallid, shrinking creature who stood before 
him. What could he, the proud, the gifted, the 
admired, — what could he see in the unlovely being 
who trembled at his look ? His mortal nature was 
one of passionate emotion; beauty was the very 
light of his life ; he basked in the smiles of fair 
women, and quaffed the rich draught of fame from 
the hands of noble men, until he was sated even to 
weariness of both. He had nothing but enjoy- 
ment in life, and his world-satisfied spirit retained 
no remembrance of its former life, so he looked 
upon the pale maiden and turned away. But she 
whose mental vision had been purified by tears, — 
she who had lived in darkness until her eye had 
learned to pierce the thick gloom, — could see afar 
off the vague shadows of the past. A dim remem- 
brance of that prior life and of that broken tie 
haunted her lonely spirit, until in the deep secrecy 
of her woman's heart she acknowledged her spirit- 
bond. Years again passed on, and wrought out 
their changes as they swept along. Health had 
shed its balm upon Ernestine's shrunken frame, 
and the dwarfed and sickly and sorrowful maiden 
had now flung off the weight of bodily infirmities 
which had so cumbered her soaring mind. The 
thirst of her fevered heart, too, was quenched. She 
loved and was beloved, even as mortal beings love. 



162 The Spirit-Bond. 

She had won the deep and abiding tenderness of 
one of the noblest of God's creatures, and sons 
and daughters were growing up around her in 
infant beauty. Ernest, too, had passed through 
the ordeal which so severely tries and refines the 
character. He had concentrated all the passion 
of his ardent nature upon one object; he had 
poured out the priceless treasures of his heart 
and mind at the feet of one who smiled upon the 
votary, while she trampled on his offering. Vanity 
taught her to rejoice in her triumph over that 
noble spirit, but she lacked the soul to appreciate 
the value of the riches which he proffered. Wear- 
ied, disgusted, heart-sick, he gathered up his 
crushed gifts, and locking them within his heart's 
most secret cell, he sealed with a fearful oath 
his vow that none should ever again unclose that 
despoiled treasure-house. Time subdued his wild 
anguish, but it could not restore his trusting faith. 
Ernest had drunk the cup of sorrow, and hence- 
forth he looked upward for his hopes of happi- 
ness. But opportunity, that double-faced fiend, 
which sometimes turns on us the features of an 
angel, and again shows us the distorted visage of 
a demon, — opportunity, and the thirst for human 
affection which consumes so many hearts, decided 
Ernest's destiny. There was a fair and gentle 
maiden whose lonely and unprotected youth 
claimed his pitying tenderness. Less for his own 



The Spirit-Bond. 163 

sake than for hers — the timid and the trustful — 
did he woo her to be his bride, and kindly and 
devotedly did he watch over her comfort and 
happiness. Fame, and honor, and domestic peace 
were now the lot of Ernest; while love, and hope, 
and happiness shed their sunshine over the destiny 
of Ernestine. Yet there were moments when the 
one turned with weariness from the peace which 
to his impetuous spirit seemed like listless indo- 
lence of soul, and when the other felt her heart 
grow cold and still amid her happiness. Why 
was this? Alas! those dim remembrances haunted 
the secret chambers of their souls. A longing 
after the perfect sympathy which is found only 
in spiritual existence wearied their disappointed 
hearts. Ernest found none to read the volume of 
his thoughts. His gentle wife would have stood 
aghast had but a single page of that passion- 
worded book been revealed to her timid eyes. 
She might share his kindly emotions, but hidden 
deep within his bosom were vague desires, half- 
crushed hopes, wild imaginings, fierce emotions, 
aye, and maddening passions, which, like the im- 
prisoned winds, wanted only freedom to make 
them devastating in their power. And Ernestine, 
found she not the fullness of sympathy in her 
heart's deep love? Ah! when did the passion- 
haunted bosom ever find the sweet repose of per- 
fect sympathy ? Rare, indeed, is that precious boon, 



164 The Spirit-Bond. 

and even when found, rarely is it proffered at the 
instant when the heart is fainting for its refresh- 
ment. They who love with the fervors of earthly 
passion are as those who wander in an atmos- 
phere of fog and mist. Objects are seen in false 
positions; their forms change with the shifting 
clouds, and while the eyes of one of the loving 
pair may discern the perfect outline of some 
distant view, the other can see only vagueness. 
Things wear often a different aspect to the twain, 
even as on Hartz Mountains one traveler per- 
ceives at early dawn the Giant of the Hills walk- 
ing his mystic rounds, while his companion sees 
in the same image only an indistinct and magni- 
fied reflex of his own person. It has been most 
wisely ordered that the bond which unites wedded 
hearts should be woven of manifold sympathies 
— sympathies growing out of differences as well 
as similitudes of character, even as harmony is 
produced by a skilful introduction of an occa- 
sional discord in the concord of sweet sounds — 
sympathies which, when entwined with our best 
feelings, form a tie which is stronger than the 
fetter of triple brass. But there is in every heart 
a ''holy of holies," into which earthly passion 
never intrudes ; and when we enter in behind that 
veil, when we find ourselves there alone, the priest, 
aye, and ofttimes the victim, in that secret sanc- 
tuary, what wonder if we feel that we would fain 



The Spirit-Bond. 165 

find a brother Levite to share our sacred ministry! 
Even in the most loving hearts there come mo- 
ments of oppressive loneliness, when we feel that 
we dwell solitary amid the ruins of our hopes ; and 
thus must it ever be until this "mortal shall put 
on immortality/' 

Again th e twin-born met. The world was around 
them, and cold eyes looked upon them as hand 
grasped hand in the cordial interchange of kindly 
greeting ; but a sudden thrill, like that with which 
the night breeze awakens the harp-string, was 
felt in the hearts of both. The ordeal of sorrow 
had been passed, the soul was regaining some 
of its lost perceptions, the unity of spirit was 
faintly shadowed forth, and the life of life was for 
an instant felt, like a pulse in the secret soul. 
Why should we trace so minutely the earthly ex- 
istence of those who were united in this spirit- 
bond! It is but a record of those changes and 
sorrows which belong to all who live. Griefs 
came upon them, in many and varied forms. The 
shadow of Death often darkened their threshold, 
and their steps became heavy and slow over the 
dust and ashes of extinguished hopes and affec- 
tions. Worldly cares beset them, and temptations 
often resisted, but sometimes too powerful for 
erring mortal to repel, added the sting of remorse 
to the bitterness of life. But in proportion as the 
world lost its hold upon their hearts, did their 



166 The Spirit-Bond. 

sympathies in each other strengthen. At first 
there were brief and blissful meetings, succeeded 
by intervals of separation, almost of forgetful- 
nessj then came anew the '^ surprises of sudden 
joy" when the delicious thrill of spirit-life taught 
them the presence of a kindred nature. The deep 
heaviness of soul which fell upon them when in 
loneliness they indulged their vain longings and 
aspirations, at length taught them to respect the 
close-knit sympathies which united them. But 
never did the stain of earthly passion sully those 
pure bonds. The dove-like wings of spiritual love 
are never folded in a myrtle bower; no rose- 
wreaths fetter its upward flight. Brooding with 
protecting care over the wayward hearts which 
are to be purified by suffering, it awaits the mo- 
ment when it may soar to a holier sphere, and 
catch on its radiant pinions the light which ema- 
nates from the tree which standeth by the River 
of Life in the midst of Paradise. Through many 
years did the twin-born spirits fulfil their mission 
of usefulness. The affections of their earthly na- 
ture were made to minister to the good and hap- 
piness of all who dwelt within their influence,- 
while the sense of their higher existence, which 
grew stronger as the claims of mortal life lost 
their value, gave them new energy to bear the 
heat and burden of the day. The world of sin 
and misery in which they dwelt had sullied and 



The Spirit-Bond. 167 

disfigured, but it could not efface, the image of 
God within their souls. They were weak and 
erring and sinful creatures, but they were also 
purified by their ordeal of human suffering. They 
waited in patient hope the moment when sorrow 
should have done its work, and when the released 
spirit should return to the place of its birth. At 
length the hour came when, with dim eye and 
failing breath, the strong man lay down to die in 
his old age. Time had dealt kindly with him, and 
no infirmity had marred his stately form or weak- 
ened his noble mind. Calm as an infant on his 
couch of nightly rest lay Ernest on his bed of 
death. Children and friends were around him; 
his gentle and loving wife bent tearfully over 
him to catch the last faint accents of his voice ; 
but all outer things were hidden from his glazing 
eyes. Suddenly a vision passed before the dying 
man. He saw a form of one like himself in 
lineaments, yet wearing the softer features of 
womanhood; but the seal of death was upon her 
brow, and the old man knew that the mighty 
hand of the King of Terrors had restored for one 
brief moment to that pale and faded form its 
pristine and unsullied loveliness. 

At that instant his eyelids fell; a light like that 
of a sunbeam, a sudden flashing as if an angel's 
radiant wing had swept the air, gleamed over his 
pale face; while a voice, sweet as the summer 



168 The Spirit-Bond. 

wind, whispered in his dull ear, "Come, brother, 
come to the better land." And the spirit obeyed 
the spirit call. One bright look beamed from his 
dim eyes, then all waxed gray and ghastly. But 
high above these dark scenes of sin and misery 
rose the twin-born spirits. One glance they cast 
upon the prison-house they had left; one sigh 
they gave to those who wept with unavailing 
regret beside their senseless clay; then, folded in 
each other's arms, they turned their gaze upward : 
but not to the rosy bowers of uncreated souls. 
Their earthly mission was fulfilled; their spirits 
had known the bondage of the flesh; they had 
found the freedom which belongs to the sons of 
God ; and now, united Id the bonds of unchange- 
able love, the twin-born soared to the mansions of 
eternal happiness which await the created and 
the redeemed. 




25at6am dttman^is 2Dteaiti* 




N the little hamlet of Anneberg, far up 
^ among the Erzberges, or Copper Moun- 
45^*^ tains, of Saxony, there dwelt, once upon 
a time, a gentle child named Barbara. 
She was so fair, with such soft blue eyes, such 
long golden curls, and withal wearing a look of 
such exceeding sweetness, that the people of the 
hamlet, who were all miners, or workers in metal, 
called her by a name that signified the " Lily of 
the Mines." Barbara was an orphan, a little lone 
creature whom no one claimed, but whom every- 
body loved. Her father had been a delver into 
the depths of the earth, and when she was only a 
tiny little baby he had kissed her round cheek and 
gone to his daily labor at early dawn ; but ere the 
shadows of the dark trees fell toward the eastern 
slope of the hills, he was brought home mangled 
and lifeless. The '^ fire-damp " had seized him and 
his companions; or, as the simple peasants be- 

169 



170 Barbara JJttman\s Dream. 

lieved, the demon of the mine had arisen in his 
might, and torn to pieces the daring spoilers of 
his treasure-house. Barbara's mother did not 
long outlive the dreadful sight. She pined away 
with a dull aching at her heart, and one morning 
a kind neighbor found the child sleeping calmly 
on the cold bosom of her dead mother. From that 
moment the little Barbara became the nursling of 
the whole hamlet. The good women of the village 
remembered that she had been born on a Sunday 
morning, and according to their tender and beau- 
tiful faith, the "Sabbath-child" had received a 
peculiar blessing, which was shared, in some de- 
gree, by all who ministered to her wants. So Bar- 
bara was the foster-child of many mothers, and 
found heart-kindred in every cottage. But chiefly 
did she dwell, after she had grown beyond the 
swaddling bands of infancy, in the house of the 
good Gottlieb, the pastor of this little mountain 
flock of Christians. Barbara grew up a gentle, 
quiet child, rarely mingling in the noisy sports of 
the villagers, and loving nothing so well as to 
steal away to some forest nook, where she would 
sit for hours looking out upon the rugged face of 
nature, and weaving dreams whose web, like that 
of the wood-spider, was broken by a breath. Some 
said : " Little Barbara is moping for the lack of 
kindred." Others said more truly: '^ Nay, is she 
not a blessed Sabbath-child ? It may be that the 



Barhara Uttmaii's Dream. 171 

spirit of her dead mother is with her in the lonely 
places where she loves to abide. Hinder her not, 
therefore, lest ye break the unseen bond between 
the living and the dead." So Barbara was left to 
the guidance of her own sweet wiU, and long ere 
she had grown beyond childhood she was familiar 
with all the varied aspects of nature in the wild 
and beautiful country of her birth. It seemed as 
if some holy charm had indeed been bestowed on 
the little orphaned Sabbath-child, for every living 
thing seemed to recognize in her a gentle and lov- 
ing companion. All the children of the hamlet 
loved her, and it was wonderful to see the little 
shy birds hopping about her feet to pick the 
crumbs which she always scattered for them in 
her wanderings. But Barbara was not a merry, 
light-hearted maiden. Cheerful she was and gen- 
tle, but not gay ; for a cloud had fallen upon her 
earliest years, and a shadow from Death's wing 
had thrown a gloom over her infant life, darkening 
those days which should have been all sunshine. 
True, she had found friends to shield her from 
want, but never did she see a child nestling upon 
its mother's bosom without feeling a mournfal 
loneliness of heart. Therefore it was that she 
loved to steal away to the green foldings of the 
hills, and hold companionship with the pleasant 
things of earth, where, in the quietude of her own 
pure nature, she could commune with herself. 



172 Barbara TJttman^s Dream. 

She had early learned to think of her mother as 
an angel in heaven, and when she looked up to 
the blue sky, gorgeous in its drapery of gold and 
purple clouds, or shining with its uncounted mul- 
titude of stars, she never forgot that she was gaz- 
ing upon the outer gates of that glorious home 
where dwelt her long-lost parents. Yet she was 
not an idle or listless dreamer in a world where 
all have their mission to fulfil, and where none 
are so desolate as to have no duties to perform. 
She learned all the book-lore that the good pastor 
chose to impart to the little maidens of the hamlet, 
and no hand was more skilful than hers with the 
knitting-needle and distaff. Thus she grew up, 
delicate and fair, with eyes as blue as summer 
skies, and long, golden locks hanging almost to 
her feet, for she was as tiny as a fairy in stature. 
There came sometimes to the cottage of Father 
Grottlieb a dark-browed man, whose towering form 
and heavily built limbs gave him the semblance of 
some giant of the hills. His voice was loud and 
as clear as a trumpet-call, and his step was bold 
and firm, like that of a true-born mountaineer. 
He was the owner of vast tracts in the mine dis- 
tricts, and stores of untold wealth lay hidden for 
him in earth's deep caverns. Herr Uttman was 
stern of visage, and bold — it may be rough — in 
his bearing, but his heart was as gentle as a 
woman's. He loved to sit at Gottlieb's board. 



Barhara Uttman^s Bream. 173 

and, while partaking of his simple fare, to drink 
in the wisdom which the good pastor had learned 
in far-off lands. The wonders of Nature — the 
mystic combinations that are ever going on in her 
subterranean laboratory — the secret virtues, or 
the equally secret venom, which is found in her 
humblest plants — the slow but unfailing process 
of her developments, by which the small and 
worthless acorn grows into the towering oak, and 
the winged seed lifts its broad pinions in the new 
form of leafy branches toward the skies — all 
these things Herr Uttman loved to learn from the 
lips of the wise old man. Therefore did he seek 
the pastor's cottage whenever he had leisure to 
listen to his teachings. 

Uttman's kindly heart had early warmed toward 
the orphan child of Gottlieb's adoption. He won 
her infantine love by telling her wild tales of the 
dark mines, and the fantastic spirits of the nether 
world. He had tales of the Fire Demon and the 
Water Dragon, of the Mocking Imp who led poor 
miners to their destruction by mimicking the voice 
of a companion, and of the dazzling Cavern Queen, 
the flash of whose diamond crown, and the gleam 
of whose brighter eyes, lured the poor workman 
to a frightful death. To sit on his knee, twining 
her small fingers in the black curls which fell un- 
shorn upon his shoulders — to look in his great 
dark eyes as they gleamed with the enthusiasm of 



174 Barbara Uttman\s Dream. 

that half -poetic nature which is the inheritance of 
a high-hearted mountaineer — to feel herself nest- 
ling like a dove on his broad breast, and clinging 
to him half in terror, half in delight, as his strong 
words brought all those fearful shapes vividly be- 
fore her eyes — these had been Barbara's pleasures 
when a little child. But Barbara could not always 
remain the petted child, and the time came when 
the budding maiden sat on a stool at Uttman's 
feet, and no longer leaned her head upon his 
bosom while she listened to his wild legends. At 
first Herr Uttman was troubled at the change in 
Barbara's manner; then he pondered over its mean- 
ing, and at last he seemed to awaken to a new 
perception of happiness. So he asked Barbara to 
be his wife, and though his years doubly numbered 
hers, she knew that she loved no one half so well, 
and, with the affection which a child might feel 
for a tender parent, she gave him the troth-pledge 
of her maiden faith. Nor was Barbara mistaken 
in her recognition of his real nature. A rough 
and stern man did he seem to many, but his heart 
was full of kindness, and his affections, though re- 
pressed and silent, yet, like a mountain stream, 
made for themselves only a deeper channel. He 
had an abiding love for Nature. He defaced not 
her fair bosom with the scars of the plow or the 
pick- ax, but following the course of the dark ra- 
vine, and entering into the yawning chasm, he 



Barbara TJttman^s Dream. 175 

opened his way into earth's treasure-house, leaving 
the trees to tower from the mountain's brow, the 
streams to leap down their rocky beds, and the 
greensward to stretch down the sunny slopes. 

Barbara was as a dove nestling in the branches 
of a stately tree. No wonder her husband wor- 
shiped her, for his affections were like a full, deep 
stream rushing through a mine, and she was like 
the star which, even at noonday, may be seen re- 
flected in its depths. She was the angel of his 
life, the bright and beautiful spirit of truth and 
love within his household. Years passed on, and 
Barbara had but one ungratified hope within her 
heart. God had given her no children, and the 
tenderness of her nature found no vent save in her 
kindly charities. To the poor, and needy, and 
sorrowful she was the friend and benefactress, 
but her heart sometimes thrilled with a vain re- 
pining, and she felt a thirst for those pure waters 
which spring up only in a mother's pathway. One 
night she was oppressed with sadness, and ere she 
yielded herself up to sleep, she prayed that this 
vain longing within her heart might be quenched 
forever, or find some solace in the duties which 
lay around her. Scarcely had she closed her eyes 
in slumber, when her couch was visited by a wild 
and wonderful dream. She dreamed she was 
standing within the porch, when a lady clad in 
shining raiment emerged from the foldings of the 



176 Barbara Uttman^s Dream. 

hills and slowly approached her. The lady's face 
was hidden beneath a snow-white veil of some 
transparent fabric which, though it seemed as 
translucent as water, yet, like water, gave an in- 
distinctness to the object seen through it. But 
when the strange visitant spoke, her voice thrilled 
through Barbara's inmost heart, for it w^as the 
spirit-voice which she had so often heard in her 
childhood — the voice of her dead mother. It 
seemed to Barbara that the lady stood close beside 
her, and then, without fear, Barbara laid her head 
on the stranger's bosom and clasped her arms 
around her tall form, while she rather felt than 
heard these words : ^' Daughter, lift up thine eyes, 
and behold the children which the Lord hath given 
unto thee." Barbara raised her head and beheld 
a train of young maidens clad in the simple cos- 
tume of the Saxon peasant, and linked together, 
as it seemed, by webs of the same transparent tex- 
ture as that which veiled the lady's face. Slowly 
they passed before her wondering eyes, fading 
into thin air as they became lost in the distance, 
but still succeeded by others similarly clad and 
holding webs of the same delicate fabric, until 
Barbara's brain grew giddy as the troop swept on 
unceasingly. Weary with gazing, she closed her 
eyes, and when she reopened them the maidens 
had vanished ; only the strange lady in her shin- 
ing garments was beside her, and she heard a low, 



Barbara Uttman^s Dream. 177 

silvery voice saying : ^' They who are called to ful- 
fil a mission among nations mnst find their sons 
and their daughters beneath the roof-tree of the 
poor and the oppressed. Childless art thou, Bar- 
bara, yet the maidens of Saxony through yet un- 
counted ages shall call thee mother." Barbara 
awoke from her dream, but so strongly was it im- 
pressed upon her memory that she could not ban- 
ish it from her thoughts for many days. But it 
had done its work upon her gentle spirit, for from 
that hour she felt that Heaven had some recom- 
pense in store for her, and though utterly unable 
to interpret her vision, she endeavored, by re- 
doubling her charities, to find for herself children 
among the needy and sorrowful. But year after 
year fleeted on, and Herr Uttman's coal-black 
locks had become almost silver- white, while Bar- 
bara's cheek had lost nothing of its smoothness, 
and her golden locks, though gathered beneath a 
matron's coif, were still as glossy and sunny as in 
her girlhood (for time seemed to have spared her 
gentle beauty as if in reverence for the gentle 
spirit which it had so long clothed in a fitting 
garb). She had long since forgotten her youthful 
repinings, for from every cottage in the hamlet 
had blessings gone up to Heaven upon her who 
was the friend of the friendless; and though her 
dream was still vivid in her remembrance, she fan- 
cied she had already attained its fulfilment in the 

12 



178 Barbara Uttman^s Bream. 

gratitude of the poor. " Come with me, sweet 
wife, and I will show thee a new wonder in the 
mines," said the good Herr Uttman one summer's 
morning. Barbara looked up with a pleasant 
smile : " Have I not threaded with thee all the 
mazes of the dark mountains, and gathered the 
glittering spar, the many-tinted stone, and the 
rough gem ? Are there yet more marvels in thy 
dark domain ? " " Nay, don thy wimple and hood 
and thou shalt see." So Barbara went forth with 
her husband, and he led her to the yawning mouth 
of a dark cavern in the mountains. Carefully in- 
folding her in a thick cloak, to protect her from 
the jagged points of the rocks, he took her in his 
arms, for he had lost none of his gigantic strength, 
and bore her like a child into the cavern. For a 
time they wended their way in what seemed to her 
total darkness, and she was only conscious of be- 
ing carried along winding passages where she felt 
the spray of a subterranean torrent, and heard the 
dash of its waters in some unfathomed chasm. 
At length her husband, setting her feet upon a 
broad ledge of rock, lifted the cloak from her face 
and bade her look upon the scene before her. 
Barbara found herself at the entrance of a long 
gallery in the mine, in the roof of which an aper- 
ture had been made up to the outer surface of the 
mountain, and through which a flood of sunshine 
was pouring down into what seemed a glittering 



Barbara Uttman's Bream. 179 

corridor hung with festoons of the most exqui- 
sitely wrought tapestry. Never had Barbara be- 
held anything so fantastically beautiful. The 
sides of the shaft were covered with a half-trans- 
parent fabric, inwrought with patterns like rich 
embroidery, through which the gleam of the metal 
shone like gold, as the sunbeam danced into the 
cavern depths. It was a gallery in the mine 
which years before had been closed up and for- 
gotten. The workmen, while digging an air-shaft, 
had struck into the disused chamber. Cut in the 
solid ore, the pillars which supported its roof 
were carved into grotesque shapes as the whim of 
the old miners had directed the stroke of their 
tools. During the years that it had been closed 
the spiders had taken possession of its walls, and 
their webs, spun over and over again for more 
than half a century, had produced a tapestry 
richer in design and more airy in fabric than ever 
came from the looms of Ispahan. It needed but 
little stretch of imagination to behold the vine 
with its tiny tendrils and drooping fruit, the rose 
with its buds and leaves, the fantastic arabesque 
border, and the quaint devices of ancient embla- 
zoning, in that many-tissued, yet translucent web. 
Nowhere else could the same humble material 
have worn the same magical beauty, for the min- 
gled colors of the ore which formed the walls, and 
the golden sunshine pouring in through the roof, 



180 Barbara TJttman^s Dream, 

tinted the woven tracery with all the hues of the 
rainbow. Barbara stood entranced before this 
strange spectacle; but while she gazed, dim and 
vague recollections came thronging upon her 
mind. At length all was clear to her. In the 
webs which adorned the walls of the mine she 
recognized the beautiful drapery which had veiled 
the face of her dream-visitant, and had linked to- 
gether the band of dream-children in former years. 
A cry of wild surprise broke from her lips, and 
from that moment she felt that there was a mys- 
terious connection between her fate and this 
haunted chamber of the mine. Now when Bar- 
bara returned to her home, and sat down amid her 
workwomen, she told of this wondrous fabric 
woven by the little fairy spinners in the mine. It 
happened that among the pensioners of her bounty 
was numbered a certain woman from Brabant who 
had been driven from her home by the cruelties 
practised by the Duke of Alva in the Low Coun- 
tries. In her own country she had learned to 
weave a coarse kind of lace, and when she heard 
her lady describe the delicate texture of the spi- 
ders' webs, she drew forth some flaxen threads, and 
wove them into meshes resembling somewhat the 
drapery which Barbara had so much admired. 
This was all that was wanting to give purpose and 
definiteness to Barbara's vague fancies. 

They who look with most pleasure on a finished 



Barhara TJttman^s Bream. 181 

work are ofttimes most easily wearied witli trac- 
ing the slow footsteps of the patient laborer. The 
reader would tire of this faithful chronicle if called 
to watch the gradual progress of Barbara Utt- 
man's schemes of wide-spread good. By unwearied 
toil she made herself acquainted with the means 
of perfecting the new manufacture, which offered 
to her prophetic spirit a means of livelihood to the 
feebler portion of the poor. Going from one im- 
provement to another, she finally invented the 
cushion, the bobbins, and the pins by which hand- 
woven lace is wrought with such perfect sym- 
metry and regularity of fabric and design as make 
it, even now, the costliest of all the trappings of 
wealth. Then, when the invention was perfected, 
by offering premiums to those who would engage 
in the work, by establishing manufactories in her 
own domain, by precept and example, and all the 
varied means of influence which wealth and virtue 
had placed within her power, she established the 
weaving of lace as the special employment of the 
women of Saxony. Thousands of maidens have 
found their sole support in this employment, and 
for nearly three hundred years the name of Bar- 
bara Uttman has been revered as the ^'mother" of 
many daughters, and the benefactress of the wo- 
men of more than one nation in Europe. 

Gentle reader, I have beguiled you with no 
fictitious tale. In the churchyard of the little 



182 Barbara Uttman^s Bream. 

mountain hamlet of Anneberg lie the remains of 
Barbara Uttman, who was born in 1514, married 
in 1531 to Christopher Uttman, a rich mine-owner, 
and died a widow in 1575. A visit to a long dis- 
used shaft in a mine, where the spiders had woven 
their webs for fifty years, gave her the first idea 
of that beautiful fabric which, under the vari- 
ous names of Mechlin, Valenciennes, and Brussels 
lace, makes the choicest of aU additions to a lady's 
toilet. 

It is said that since her establishment of its 
manufacture in 1560, upward of a million of wo- 
men are supposed to have obtained a comfortable 
livelihood by this species of employment. Not- 
withstanding the introduction of a much inferior 
kind of lace which is woven by machinery, at 
least twenty thousand women in Europe annually 
obtain their support from the manufacture of 
hand-woven lace. With the far-seeing spirit of 
true philanthropy a woman thus solved for her 
country the problem which statesmen yet cavil 
over, and by affording the poor a means of hum- 
ble independence, rescued the women of her own 
land from want and destitution. Yet how few of 
those who deck themselves with lace only less 
costly than diamonds have ever heard the name 
of Barbara Uttman ! 





Cljc ^octV otljougljt 

LOOKED within a large and stately 
apartment, where the time-hallowed me- 
morials of past ages mingled in quaint 
confusion with the appliances of mod- 
ern luxury and taste. Tall and massive cabinets? 
filled with huge tomes black with age, towered up 
to the lofty ceiling, while nestling away in corners, 
like children hiding from the presence of a stately 
grandame, were slight and fanciful stands, laden 
with the flimsier volumes of a less earnest, but 
more progressive era. Tapestry, faded and worn, 
yet still gorgeous in tint and noble in design, cov- 
ered the walls, and silken curtains, fresh from the 
weaver's loom, floated down from the heavy cor- 
nice that crowned the oriel window. In one corner 
lay a pile of armor, dented and battered with the 



184 The Poefs ThoiigJit 

stroke of battle-ax and spear; beside it were 
suspended the bow and arrows of an Indian 
chief 5 on a table beneath were a pair of boxing- 
gloves and foils ; w^hile leaning against a carved 
column stood the unerring rifle of a Kentucky 
hunter. Vases of varied shapes, from the gro- 
tesque Indian idol to the graceful and beauti- 
ful Etruscan lacrymatory, gave out the perfume 
of the flowers which drooped over their curved 
sides, or the hidden odors which lay within their 
sculptured cells. An organ stood near the win- 
dow, and the book upon it was open at Bee- 
thoven's ^'Soul-Longings," that exquisite music- 
poem in which one of the master-spirits of the 
world of harmony has poured forth his yearnings 
for the Infinite. 

On a curiously carved table in the center of the 
room were an antique candelabrum and an ala- 
baster lamp ; but the lights had burned out in their 
sockets, and the lamp was dying for lack of oil, 
so that the moon, streaming through the open 
casement, filled the apartment with those broken 
shadows and clear, cold lights which only her 
beams can give. On the balcony beyond the win- 
dow hung an ^olian harp, and the night breeze, 
as it stooped to kiss the trembling strings, gave 
out from its dewy wings the perfume of flowers 
and the odor of the distant woodlands. The mur- 
mur of a rushing stream and the rustle of vine- 



The Poet's TJiougU. 185 

leaves added their melody to the sweet sounds which 
pervaded this mystic chamber j and sometimes, as 
the wind shook the tapestry where lay the glittering 
corselet and painted shield, a dim sound of martial 
clangor miugled with the gentler music. While I 
gazed, methought mine eye gradually adapted it- 
self to the deep shadows, and many things unseen 
before became clearly visible. Oaken cabinets, 
made priceless in value by the skill of the cunning 
workman ; golden caskets, whose chiseling far out- 
vied the richness of the metal ,• gems, many-hued, 
and each bearing in its central heart that living 
tongue of fire which attests its purity; pearls, scat- 
tered around like foam upon the wave — all that 
earth, ocean, air could give of rich, and rare, and 
marvelous, was gathered there in that wondrous 
apartment. At last, when I was well nigh aweary 
of this lavishment of wealth, I beheld emerging from 
the midst of these surroundings (even as figures 
in a time-stained picture come forth at the touch 
of water) the form, of him who daily dwelt among 
them. None but a poet could inhabit such a spot ; 
none but a poet could gather around him things 
so various, so beautiful, so quaint; none but a 
poet could create the atmosphere which harmo- 
nized all these incongruities, — alas ! none but a 
poet could wear the worn and weary look of a 
watcher of the stars, a prophet unto the deaf and 
unbelieving. Stately and noble was the form that 



186 The Poefs Thought 

I now looked upon, bnt the limbs were cramped 
with long inaction, and the hand that conld once 
guide with equal force the falchion's glittering 
edge, or the pen's keen point, now hung nerveless 
and feeble. The light of his eye was faded, and 
the furrows of painful thought rose upon his 
brow. He had grown weary of his lofty but un- 
satisfying task. He had wasted his life in the 
search after perfect utterance ; he had coined his 
heart into words, but they had met with no re- 
sponse. Suddenly, while I looked upon him, the 
moon sank beneath the horizon, and the room was 
left in total darkness. Then rose the murmured 
voice of supplication. He had learned to distrust 
his own strength, he had discerned the weakness 
of the broken reed on which he had leaned when 
in his own might alone he sought to do good; 
and now the poet prayed. He prayed for strength 
from Heaven to work out his appointed mission, 
and power to fulfil his lofty destiny. Even while 
the words yet lingered on his lips, the chamber 
was filled with a radiance brighter, richer, lovelier 
than the world could bestow ; for beside the faint- 
ing poet stood a being from whose wings were 
shed the many-tinted glories of paradise. Beau- 
tiful beyond description was this new and perfect 
creation of the poet's soul. The loveliness of 
woman was upon its countenance ; the fresh glad- 
ness of childhood smiled from its bright lip and 



The Poet's Thought 187 

sunny brow; the symmetry of a young Apollo 
molded its exquisite limbs. A moment it bent 
over him who had called it into being. One kiss 
upon his brow, one touch upon his heart, and the 
fire returned to his eye, the vigor to his limbs, and 
he rose exultingly to his feet. " Go forth " — these 
were the w^ords which burst from his trembling 
lips — ^'go forth unto all men; thou art the out- 
ward symbol of my soul's ideal, — go forth! Speak 
unto the souls of all mankind, for thou art made 
after their semblance and canst awaken their sym- 
pathy; thou art filled with the divine essence, 
and canst lift them from their groveling estate. 
As for me, I have wrought out my allotted task. 
I wait now for the response which is my reward. 
Let me but awaken one pulse in the world's great 
heart, and I am content to die." Methought the 
power was given unto me to trace the progress of 
this spirit-messenger; and first I saw it enter the 
streets of a great city — as if there, where the heart 
of humanity already beat with a quickened and 
fevered pulsation, it could be touched to the finer 
issues of poetry. I saw the beautiful shape enter 
the gloomy warehouse of the busy merchant. It 
rested for a moment on the open page of his 
ledger, and he paused in his calculations while he 
gazed on the fair creature thus intruding itself 
into the haunts of sordidness. There was softness 
in his eye, and there was tenderness in the touch 



188 The Foefs Thought 

with which he put his gentle visitant aside, and 
said, ^' At a more convenient season I will listen to 
thee." But the business of life was going on 
around him, and the vision vanished from his 
thoughts as from his presence. It went on — 
that lovely thought — until it reached the abode 
of him whose voice was listened to with reverence, 
as the true exponent of complex human laws. He 
turned aside from the ponderous volumes in which 
he was half buried; he took the fair creature a 
moment to his bosom ; its touch thrilled his'heart 
and brain, and when the moment came for him 
to speak unto the people, the power of that touch 
was shown in the godlike thunders of his elo- 
quence. But there came no response to the dis- 
tant poet's listening ear, for the speaker knew not 
how much he owed to the wandering Thought. 
He knew not that its fresh, cool touch upon his 
fevered brow had healed his latent malady and 
called forth his latent power. Therefore he had 
no thanks, no response, for him who had sent 
forth this sweet minister of good. The wander- 
ing Thought went on ; it entered the chamber of 
him who had been chosen to be a priest of the 
living God, and its many-hued wings shed new 
and lovelier light upon the pages of the blessed 
gospel. Truths before but dimly seen by the 
lamp of reason now came forth in the full splen- 
dors of faith, and the preacher felt many things 



The Poefs TJiought 189 

which he had hitherto only known. His voice grew 
louder in warning, his tones deeper in remon- 
strance, as if his lips had been touched by "a live 
coal from the altar." He spake as he had never 
spoken before, and men trembled before the power 
of his words. But he recognized not the spirit 
which had transfused into him this power. He 
knew not that the poet's thought had interpreted 
the dark sayings of the oracle of God; he gave 
back no response unto him who had looked back- 
wardy and onward, and upward ere he had sent 
forth his messenger of light. Again the Thought 
went on; it rested at the side of the statesman, 
and he learned sympathy with his kind. The wel- 
fare of humanity, and not the well-being of a tiny 
section of earth, now filled his loftier dreams and 
gave majesty to his projects. He had been 
taught to feel as well as to think. He had been 
brought back to a sense of his own responsi- 
bility. He remembered that the wheel of pro- 
gression rolls on and on, in God's own time. A 
child may fling pebbles which seem to retard its 
course, or the united force of human intellect may 
seem to urge it forward with destructive speed, 
yet still these are but agents of almighty will. 
But in the grandeur of the thoughts which un- 
folded themselves before him— in the contempla- 
tion of mankind in its multitudinous masses — he 
forgot the gentle fantasy which had first awak- 



190 The Poefs Thought. 

ened his nobler perceptions, and he gave forth no 
response. To the soldier came the Thought, and 
the love of country grew into a religion. He 
awoke to deeds of high emprize, but in the din of 
battle he heard not the ^' still small voice " that 
called him to his post, and he died on the blood- 
stained field gloriously and grandly, yet with no 
recognition of the inspiriting director of his des- 
tiny. Beside the easel of an artist now paused 
the wandering Thought. As its shadow fell upon 
the vacant canvas, a scene of ideal beauty was 
traced thereon, while the gorgeous coloring of its 
waving pinions flung tints beyond a painter's 
dreaming. As if inspired, the artist snatched his 
pencil. He fixed the fleeting shadow in the living 
hues, and lo ! he has wrought a picture for im- 
mortality. But did he utter his blessing on the 
poet's dream? Alas! did he even remember the 
bright creation of his brother's soul in the more 
visible beings that grew beneath his own hand? 
Now the Thought turned aside from the lofty 
course it had first held, and sought the by- 
paths of life. It entered the sweet seclusion 
where woman sat among her babes, ministering 
blessings during every hour of her blameless life. 
Not unwelcome came the Thought to many 
such. Its gentle influence gave depth and strength 
to a feeble nature, and the lips which had once 
breathed the inarticulate murmurs of a mere in- 



The Foefs TJwugU. 191 

stinct now uttered the earnest language of a love 
born for eternity. But the accents of woman's 
response were too faint to reach the poet's ear. 
If they blest the messenger of God, their blessing 
died upon the summer air, and no tone was borne 
afar upon the rushing winds. Still the Thought 
went on. It paused at the dwelling of the peas- 
ant; it stood beside the loom of the artisan, and 
the anvil of the smith ; it shed light around the 
earth-entombed miner; it brightened the gloom 
of poverty. Above the pillow of the death- 
doomed it poured the glory of an Ideal soon to 
be realized in heaven. Amid the perplexities of 
worldly care it appeared as a luminous guide to 
higher hopes. To all, save those whose hearts 
were as the nether millstone, it came with a bless- 
ing and a power. The whole world was purer and 
better and brighter for that beautiful and wan- 
dering Thought. A change now came over my 
vision — the Thought had gone beyond my ken, 
and again the mystic chamber was before me. 
Methought its quaint plenishing seemed more 
shadowy than before ; an atmosphere of vague- 
ness was around; things seemed blending one 
with another, until the memorials of the past 
and the present, the riches of olden time and 
the treasures of yesterday, were mingled in dim 
indistinctness, as if all were slowly fading away 
like the shadows of a phantasmagoria. But amid 



192 The Poefs Thought 

them all, and as it seemed fading away like them, 
sate the Poet in his accustomed place, awaiting the 
response which was to be his guerdon for lifelong 
self-sacrifice. He was wasted and wan, for life 
was ebbing fast away. Every pulse of his heart 
was now like the repeated stroke of death, for the 
convulsive strength which sent the thickened 
blood through his frozen veins was but the last 
effort of worn-out existence. He knew that he 
must die, — already the film was gathering over 
his eye, and the gray ghastliness which is the 
shadow of Death's wing had settled upon his 
brow; he knew that he must die, but to die with- 
out one tone of human sympathy to cheer the pass- 
ing spirit, — to die ere one response had reached 
him from that pervading soul of humanity for 
which he had lived and toiled, — this was the sting 
of death. In that fearful moment when all con- 
sciousness of the outer world had passed away, 
came back the beautiful wandering Thought. The 
gleam of its wings fell around the darkening 
chamber, and the face of the Poet shone as the 
face of an angel. The night breeze shook the 
chords of the harp that hung above his head, and 
on the wild, rich music which echoed from its 
strings his spirit passed from earth. Then me- 
thought, as the darkness of the grave settled for- 
ever upon that mystic chamber, I heard a sound 
of blessing and thankfulness and love, as from 



The PoeVs Thought. 



193 



the mingled voices of multitudes afar off; and 
something whispered : 

^'Not until the burden of mortality be cast aside 
can the gifted spirit hear the response which re- 
sounds through the deep caverns of eternity , and 
welcomes the exile back to his native heaven." 




13 



€f)e 5panc^25uHtia:» 



A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, 
A poet's memory thy most far renown. 

— Lament of Tasso. 




'N the olden time of the world there 
stood on the ocean border a large and 
flourishing city, whose winged ships 
brought daily the costly merchandise 
of all nations to its overflowing storehouses. It 
was a place of busy, bustling life. Men were 
struggling fiercely for wealth, and rank, and lofty 
name. The dawn of day saw them striving each 
for his own separate and selfish schemes; the 
stars of midnight looked down in mild rebuke 
upon the protracted labor of men who gave them- 
selves no time to gaze upon the quiet heavens. 
One only of this busy crowd mingled not in their 
toil — one only idler sauntered carelessly along 
the thronged mart, or wandered listlessly by the 
sea-shore ; Adonais alone scorned to bind himself 

194 



The Fane-Builder. 195 

by fetters which he could not fling aside at his 
own wild will. Those who loved the stripling 
grieved to see him waste the springtime of life in 
thus aimlessly loitering by the wayside, while the 
old men and sages would fain have taken from 
him his ill-used freedom, and shut him up in the 
prison-house where they bestowed their madmen, 
lest his example should corrupt the youth of the 
city. But for all this Adonais cared little. In 
vain they showed him the craggy path which 
traversed the hill of fame ; in vain they set him 
in the foul and miry roads which led to the tem- 
ple of Mammon. He bowed before their solemn 
wisdom, but there was a lurking mischief in his 
glance as he pointed to his slender limbs and 
feigned a shudder of disgust at the very sight of 
those rugged and distasteful ways. So at last he 
was suffered to wend his own idle course, and 
save that careful sires sometimes held him up as 
a warning to their children, his fellow-townsmen 
almost forgot his existence. Years passed on, 
and then a beautiful and stately fane began to 
rise in the very heart of the great city. Slowly it 
rose, and for a while they who toiled so intently 
at their daily business marked not the white and 
polished stones which were so gradually and 
silently piled together in their midst. It grew, 
that noble temple, as if by magic. Every morn- 
ing dawn shed its rose-tints upon another snowy 



196 The Fane-Builder. 

marble which had been fixed in its appointed 
place beneath the light of the quiet stars. Men 
wondered somewhat, but they had scarce time to 
observe, and none to inquire. 

So the superb fabric had nearly reached its 
summit ere they heard, with unbelieving ears, 
that the builder of this noble fane was none other 
than Adonais the idler. Few gave credence to 
the tale ; for whence could he, the vagrant and 
the dreamer, have drawn those precious marbles, 
incrusted as they were with sculpture still more 
precious, and written over with characters as 
inscrutable as they were immortal? Some set 
themselves to watch for the fane-builder, but their 
eyes were heavy, and at the magic hour when the 
artist took up his labors their senses were fast 
locked in slumber. Yet silently, even as the tem- 
ple of the mighty Solomon, in which was never 
heard the sound of the workman's tool, so rose 
that mystic fane. Not until it stood in grand re- 
lief against the clear blue sky ; not until its lofty 
dome pierced the clouds, even a mountain-top ; not 
until its polished walls were fashioned within and 
without to surpassing beauty, did men learn the 
truth and behold in the despised Adonais the 
wonder-working fane-builder. 

In his wanderings the dreamer had lighted on 
the entrance to that exhaustless mine whence 
men of like soul had drawn their riches for all time. 



The Fane-Builder, 197 

The highest treasures of poesy had been given to 
his grasp, and he had built a temple which should 
long outlast the sand-heaps which the worshipers 
of Mammon had gathered around them. But even 
then, when pilgrims came from afar to gaze upon 
the noble fane, the men of his own kindred and peo- 
ple stood aloof. They cared not for this adornment 
of their birthplace ; they valued not the treasures 
that had been gathered together. Only a few en- 
tered the vestibule, and saw the sparkle of jewels 
which decked the inner shrine ; or they to whom 
the pilgrims recounted the priceless value of these 
gems in other lands— only they began to look with 
something like pride upon the dreamer Adonais. 
But not. without purpose had the fane-builder 
reared this magnificent structure. Within those 
costly walls was a veiled and jeweled sanctuary. 
There had he enshrined an idol— the image of a 
bright divinity — which he alone might worship. 
Willingly and freely did he admit the pilgrim and 
the wayfarer to the outer court of his temple; 
gladly did he offer them refreshing draughts from 
the fountain of living water which gushed up in 
its midst 5 but never did he suffer them to enter 
that "holy of holies," never did their eyes rest 
on that enshrined idol in whose honor all these 
treasures were gathered together. In progress of 
time, when Adonais had lavished all his wealth 
upon his temple, and when with the toil of gath- 



198 The Fane-Builder. 

eriug and shaping out her treasures his strength 
had well nigh failed him, there came a troop of 
revilers and slanderers — men of evil tongue, who 
swore that the fane-builder was no better than 
a midnight robber, and had despoiled other tem- 
ples of all that adorned his own. The tale was as 
false and foul as they who coined it ; but when 
they pointed to many pygmy fanes which now 
began to be reared about the city, and when men 
saw that they were built of like marbles to those 
which glittered in the temple of Adonais, they 
paused not to mark that the fairest stones in these 
new structures were but the imperfect sculptures 
which the true artist had scorned to employ, or 
perhaps the chippings of some rare gem which in 
his affluence he could fling aside. 

So the tale was hearkened unto and believed. 
They whose dim perceptions had been bewildered 
by this new uncoined and uncoinable wealth, were 
glad to think that it had belonged to some far-off 
time, or some distant region. The envious, the 
sordid, the cold, all listened, well pleased, to the 
base slander j and they who had cared little for 
his glory made themselves strangely busy in 
spreading the story of his shame. Patiently and 
unweariedly had the dreamer labored at his pleas- 
ant task, while the temple was gradually growing 
up toward the heavens ; skilfully had he polished 
the rich marbles and graven upon them the in- 



The Fane-Builder. 199 

effaceable characters of truth. But the jeweled 
adornments of the inner shrine had cost him more 
than all his other toil, for with his very heart's 
blood had he purchased those costly gems that 
sparkled on his soul's idol. 

Now, wearied and worn with bygone suffering, 
he had no strength to stand forth and defy his 
revilers. Proudly and silently he withdrew from 
the world and entered into his own beautiful fane. 
Presently men beheld that a heavy stone had been 
piled against the door of the inner sanctuary, and 
upon its polished surface were inscribed these 
words : ^' To Time the Avenger ! " 

From that day no one ever again beheld the 
dreamer. Pilgrims came as before, and rested 
within the vestibule, and drank of the springing 
fountain 5 but they no longer saw the dim outline 
of the veiled goddess in the distant shrine — only 
the white and ghostly glitter of that threatening 
stone, which seemed like the portal of a tomb, 
met their eyes. Thus years passed on, and men 
had almost forgotten the name of him who had 
wasted himself in such fruitless toil. At length 
there came one from a country far beyond the 
seas, who had set forth to explore the wonders of 
all lands. He lacked the pious reverence of the 
pilgrims, but he also lacked the cold indifference 
of those who dwelt within the shadow of the tem- 
ple. He entered the mystic fane, he gazed with 



200 The Fane-Builder, 

unsated eye upon the treasures it contaiued, and 
his soul sought for greater beauty. With daring 
hand he and his companions thrust aside the mar- 
ble portal which guarded the sanctuary. At first 
they shrunk back, dazzled and awe- stricken, as the 
blaze of rich light met their unhallowed gaze. 
Again they went forward, and then — what saw 
they? Surrounded by the sheen of jewels, glory- 
ing in the light of the diamond, the chrysolite, the 
beryl, the ruby, they found an image fashioned 
but of common clay, while extended at its feet lay 
the skeleton of the fane-builder. Worn with toil 
and pain and disappointment, he had perished at 
the feet of his idol. It may be that the scorn of 
the world had opened his eyes to behold of what 
mean materials was shapen the divinity he had 
so honored. It may be that the glitter of the 
gems he had heaped around it had perpetuated 
the delusion which had first charmed him, and he 
had thus been saved the last, worst pang of wasted 
idolatry. It matters not. He died — as aU such 
men must die — in sorrow and in loneliness. But 
the fane he has reared is as indestructible as 
the soul of him who lifted its lofty summit to the 
skies. "Time the Avenger" has redeemed the 
builder's fane ; and even the men of his own na- 
tion now believe that a prophet and a seer once 
dwelt among them. When that great city shall 
have shared the fortunes of the Babylons and 



The Fane-Builder, 201 

Ninevelis of olden time, that snow-white fane, 
written all over with characters of truth, and 
graven with images of beauty, will yet endure; 
and men of new times and new states shall learn 
lessons of holier and loftier existence from a pil- 
grimage to that glorious temple, built by spirit 
toil, and consecrated by spirit-worship and spirit- 
suffering. 




€l)e CljilbV ^i^^ioit^ 



The babe which was born into the world but yesternight 
may be reaped by the sickle of Death on the morrow, nathe- 
less it hath fulfilled its mission, for our Heavenly Father 
doeth nausrht in vain. 




N a secluded part of a certain great 
city there once abode a solitary stu- 
dent. From boyhood he had hived 
up knowledge even as the bee gathers 
honey, and year after year he had won from his 
accumulated store new strength to pursue his 
unremitted toil. Not in one field only had he 
sought for wealth: wherever man could labor 
there had he been found. He had gathered 
golden sands from the rivers that rolled their 
bright waters through classic ages 5 he had scaled 
the moldering battlements of feudal times and 
won many a trophy of barbaric chivalry ; he had 
glided into the cloister and possessed himself of 
202 



The Child's Mission. 203 

the guarded lore of monastic wisdom ; he had 
climbed the broken columns of antiquity, and 
beneath the gathering mosses of time had read 
the mysterious records of the mighty past. Of 
what avail was all his toil ? The sands were 
gathered, but he molded them not with a golden 
image of ideal beauty. The relics of olden time 
were only as broken pieces of mail, which he 
sought not to combine into armor of proof. The 
illuminated manuscript, though legible to his eyes, 
was still an emblazoned mystery to his fellow- 
men. The inscriptions from which he had swept 
the veiling moss and ivy were yet but meaning- 
less scratches to the gaze of others. Content 
with accumulating, he was like the miser who 
hoards with equal care his precious treasure, 
whether it be of gold, or silver, or copper. Yet 
the student was not without his cherished dream 
of ambition. He would fain heap up knowledge 
until the vast pile should be as a pyramid, solemn? 
mysterious, awe-inspiring to the whole world; 
then /Would he engrave his name on the imper- 
ishable memorial of his lifelong labors. Such 
was the hope, such the scheme of the cold, the 
selfish, the unsympathizing student. He wished 
not to enlighten his fellow-men 5 he devised no 
plan for the progress of suffering humanity; he 
brought not the mechanism of science to the 
work of moral advancement. For himself only 



204 The Child's Mission. 

did he labor; for himself only did he seek dis- 
tinction ; for his own aggrandizement did he con- 
centrate his whole being upon this absorbing 
search after world-wide knowledge. Is it any 
marvel, therefore, that the heart of the student 
grew cold and dead within him? — that all the 
sweet charities of life were to him but as the 
forms of some despised or unknown religion f — 
that the gentler affections of humanity seemed 
but as tethers on the eagle wing of intellect? 
Like the miner who, while he digs the bright 
silver from its bed, loses in the deadly atmos- 
phere that surrounds it all power to enjoy the 
pleasures it might purchase, so did he apply him- 
self to his life-wasting toil, until the hue of health 
left his cheek and his form was bowed with in- 
firmity, while gray hairs untimely strewed his 
hollow temples. As the light of knowledge 
brightened within him, the fire of heaven grew 
pale within his soul. His mind was full of 
strength, but the spirit which God had given 
him folded its wings in helpless weakness. He 
learned to doubt everything which came not by 
the evidence of his senses or the cold calculations 
of reason. Love and faith, those indwellers of 
the soul, were but as shadows which he could not 
grasp with his intellect, and therefore regarded 
but as visions of poetic fancy. The claims of the 
failing body he despised and disregarded. The 



Tlie GUlcVs Mission. 205 

existence of the imperishable soul he disbelieved, 
and iu the pride of mental power he imagined 
himself to be as a god, knowing good and evil ! 
In all great cities wealth is ever found tower- 
ing above the humble asylum of poverty; so it 
happened that the student's narrow and comfort- 
less apartment overlooked a fair garden which 
stretched back from a stately mansion near. It 
was not a trim and garnished plot, where every 
flower was trained with formal propriety and 
taught to adorn its parterre, even as a beauty 
would deck a ball-room. The master of this pleas- 
ant domain had sought to shut out the sight of 
his poorer neighbors, so he had planted rare trees, 
and gathered together curious shrubs and climb- 
ing plants, until the whole place was like a ver- 
dant labyrinth. The student little knew how 
unconsciously the influences of nature wrought 
upon him from this, her sweet retreat ; he knew 
not that the soul whose existence he doubted was 
winning new life from the humble ministry of 
those waving trees whose shadows fleckered the 
page on which he looked, and those twining blos- 
soms which crept even to the casement beside 
which he leaned. He had been wont to study 
nature with the cold eye of science, to dissect the 
fair frame of her varied loveliness, to analyze 
her every gift. Like the wise king, he could dis- 
course of all things, ^' from the cedar of Lebanon 



206 The Child's Mission. 

to the hyssop that groweth upon the wall '^ ; but 
he spoke as the sage, not as the lover of the beau- 
tiful. A veined leaf, a glowing blossom, brought 
him no suggestions from the world of freshness 
and beauty to which it belonged. To him crea- 
tion was but a great laboratory, and nature only 
a skilful workman evolving gases into varied 
forms of beauty and usefulness. Such was the 
daily exercise of his mind ; but his spirit, feeble 
as it had grown from neglect, had yet something 
left of its purer and better life ; therefore did the 
sweet breath of the summer flower, and the whis- 
pered voice of the evening breeze, save God's 
lamp within him from utter extinction. It was 
the evening of a sultry summer day, a thunder- 
storm had cleared the heavy air, and passing off 
in broken clouds had hung the western sky with 
drapery of gorgeous purple and gold, as if cur- 
taining the glorious couch of the weary sun. 
Every leaf, every blade of grass, bore a gem which 
sparkled in the slant beam, as if earth would fain 
show how lavish were her riches, when even her 
tiniest children could be so adorned. The stu- 
dent sate by his casement, wearied, but still oc- 
cupied in mental toil, when he espied a fairy- 
like child amid the green boughs of the garden 
beneath. Perhaps at another moment he would 
scarce have noticed the little maiden, but now 
her golden curls, her fair brow, her soft blue 



The ChiWs Mission. 207 

eyes, and the radiant sunniness of her whole 
countenance harmonized so exquisitely with the 
sparkling gladness of nature, that he could not 
choose but observe it. 

For the first time the idea came to him that 
earth might contain human flowers. But the 
thought was as transient as the image that gave 
it birth, for a merry laugh rang through the 
thickets, and the child was gone. 

But the next day and the next she appeared 
among the leafy labyrinths, until the student 
learned to look for her sweet face and listen for 
her merry voice. True, she was nothing to him ; 
she saw not the pale brow of the weary man as 
he sate behind the veiling leaves to gaze upon her 
loveliness. Nor did the student think of her, 
even while he was awaiting her presence. His 
thoughts were with his books, entangled in the 
cumbrous machinery of his ambitious dreams. It 
was rather as a consciousness, a dim perception 
of the soul, that the little maiden came to his 
loneliness. He did not think of her, but he had a 
vague feeling of pleasantness in her presence. It 
was like a new feature added to the garden 5 and 
as if a fountain of sweet waters had sprung up in 
its midst, so did the child unconsciously refresh 
his spirit. I have said that the student was cold 
and selfish, but he was also poor and proud. He 
had suffered contumely; he had endured want ; he 



208 The Child's Mission. 

had found none of the sympathy without which 
warm hearts cannot live, and with which the cold- 
est hearts will give out something of tenderness. 
He did not hate his kind, but he despised them. 
He had no fellowship with man, no love for wo- 
man. He sought to rise above them by the mas- 
tery of the mind ; he would fain have ruled, not 
influenced, their opinions. They should respect, 
admire, wonder at the neglected student, but they 
should never come near enough to behold him as 
their fellow. Such were his feelings ; yet, with a 
strange impulse, he had seemed drawn toward this 
child, as if there was a link slowly forging which 
should hereafter bind him to humanity. 

The season of flowers had passed away, and the 
many-colored veil of autumn was flung over the 
fair garden. Then came the Indian summer, with 
its soft mists, blending at morn and eve the varied 
hues of the landscape, and giving a tone of ten- 
derness to the radiant brilliancy of nature. 

With all these changes of time the gentle child 
associated herself. She was like a sunbeam, dif- 
fusing light and cheerfulness wherever her pres- 
ence came. Hour after hour, day after day, the 
happy creature went dancing and singing amid 
the green aisles of that secluded garden. Of the 
world beyond those leaf -tapestried walls she knew 
nothing, but within all was beauty and blessed- 
ness to her pure and sunny nature. Winter came, 



The Child's Mission. 209 

and the trees stood naked and desolate, while the 
vines hung leafless from their trellises, and a 
heavy covering of snow hid the enameled par- 
terres. The child sported no longer in the gar- 
den, and the student missed the gleeful voice of 
her who had been the unconscious companion of 
his solitude. Hitherto the stately mansion, with 
its proud owners and its host of servants, had 
never won even his passing attention ; but now 
he was glad that the verdureless trees afforded 
glimpses of the windows where he sometimes saw 
the sweet, bright face of the little maiden. The 
house had an inclosed terrace, where, sheltered by 
glazed casements from the weather, many choice 
plants w^ere imprisoned during the dreary winter j 
and there, half hidden, like a bird among the 
blossoms, he often beheld the happy child. Some- 
times, too, there was beauty and brightness enough 
in the winter landscape to win her forth into the 
frosty air. Then, in hood and muffler, with her 
rosy face looking out from its wrappings, like a 
lovely picture set in a quaint frame, she would 
glide over the ice in the garden walks, or gather 
up the soft, wool-like snow in her dimpled hands 
to startle the fond old grandfather who watched 
her sports. Once she stood as if entranced by a 
sudden sense of almost mystic beauty. A heavy 
rain had fallen during the day, and, congealing 
upon the shrubs and trees, had covered every 

14 



210 The Child's Mission. 

twig with the richest frostwork. Night came on, 
clear and cold, while a bright moon gave to the 
fantastic tracery an enameling of silvery luster. 
It was like a scene of fairyland ; and there, amid 
this calm, silent, spiritual-looking magnificence, 
stood the gentle child, with her eyes upturned, 
her hands clasped, her foot lifted, as if she had 
paused in mid-career, awe-struck by this wonder- 
ful beauty. To the student she seemed like a 
being of some holier sphere, and many times in 
after life did that graceful little statue, with its 
frostwork surroundings, appear before his men- 
tal sight. 

Time sped on, until the warm spring showers 
had again loosened the fettered earth. Then 
did the child rejoice in the renewed life of 
nature. She caroled amid the budding shrubs 
like a forest bird, and her voice, without having 
lost any of its mirthfulness, seemed to have a 
deeper tone of earnestness. It was strange to 
watch the gradual growth of the student's sym- 
pathies beneath the child's unconscious influence. 
He did not lose one moment of study 5 he gave 
his mind just as closely as ever to his cherished 
schemes 5 yet the child had now become essential 
to the quietude which the proper exercise of his 
faculties demanded. With her voice sounding in 
his ears, her graceful form bounding beneath his 
eyes, he could work out his processes of thought. 



The Child's Mission. 211 

and labor unremittingly in the deep caverns of 
metaphysical truth. But if she delayed her com- 
ing, if her voice was silent for hours together, 
then a restlessness pervaded his whole being-, 
some link seemed lost in the chain by which he 
coerced his faculties, and the strong thinker be- 
came the victim of a mere mood. Accustomed to 
regard with contempt everything which did not 
appeal to his reason, he scorned to analyze his 
feelings toward the fairy creature. Indeed, he 
would have found the task a fruitless one. Mere 
intellect had no part in this new sense of purity 
and beauty; passion could have nothing to do 
with this yearning toward a child of eight short 
summers; and had he not refused to believe in 
that nobler part of human nature, the soul, by 
whose delicacy of perception this enjoyment had 
come to him? Once the fiend of distrust sug- 
gested that he should test the child's innate sense 
of good. He made a drawing of her own sweet 
image, giving it the wings of an angelic messen- 
ger, and then threw it from his window upon the 
green turf below. It was not long before the lit- 
tle maiden found the picture, and, quite uncon- 
scious of its resemblance to herself, clapped her 
hands with delight as at sight of a good angel. 
The next day the student sketched a figure equally 
beautiful and equally attractive in its rich adorn- 
ments ; but to the delicate lineaments he gave the 



212 



The ChilcVs Mission. 



cold, blighting expression that we fancy should 
belong to the ministers of evil. The child found 
the second sketch, and grasped it with eager de- 
light; but scarce had she looked upon it when 
she cast it from her and fled. Before she had 
reached the extremity of the avenue she returned, 
and, digging a tiny hole in the earth, she depos- 
ited the pictui'c within it and carefully covered 
it again, as if unwilling that the image of evil 
should be above the earth. It was a strange fancy 
in the child, but there was such an earnest solem- 
nity in her look that the student could not mis- 
take the feelings by which she was prompted. 
From that time he sought no more to search the 
depths of her pure nature. He could crush a 
blossom to determine its order and design, but 
he dared not break into the heart of this human 
flower to penetrate into the mysteries of that in- 
stinctive sense of good and evil which is the prop- 
erty of an untainted and holy spirit. Another 
year passed on, and that sweet, bird-like voice had 
found an echo in every chamber of the student's 
untenanted heart ; that graceful, fawn-like form 
was traced in every variety of attitude on the 
margin of his mind's dark scroll. Remembrances 
of her loveliness and joyousness were mingled with 
his treasured learning, like the rich emblazonings 
with which, in the olden time, the curious scribe 
adorned the most abstruse doctrines of his faith. 



The GhiliVs Mission. 213 

Autumn had again covered nature with the rich 
pall that veils her decay, when a change fell upon 
the gentle child. Her step grew slower, her voice 
less frequently broke forth in song. She would 
sit for hours with folded hands and drooping 
brow, as if a sense of heaviness weighed down her 
delicate frame, and at length she came no more 
to the garden. For days the student watched, 
until his heart sunk within him. The foliage still 
shaded from his eyes the windows of the distant 
mansion, and weeks elapsed before the fallen leaves 
offered him a glimpse of the walls that inclosed 
his sweet ministrant. A strange haunting fear 
fell upon him. He grew impatient and restless ; 
study had lost its charms for him; the atmosphere 
in which he had learned to breathe wanted one 
of its vital elements. He paced his narrow room 
with a feeling of pain and powerlessness. Sud- 
denly his eye fell on his telescope ; a thought 
flashed through his mind, and the next moment 
he had turned the direction of the glass, with 
which he had been wont to sweep the heavens, to- 
ward the tiny planet which now lighted his dreary 
way on earth. 

Alas ! his glass, like that of the enchanter, re- 
vealed only desolation and sorrow. He looked 
within a half -darkened apartment, and there, on 
her little bed, lay the fair and gentle child. Her 
cheek had lost its roundness and her eye its merry 

15 



214 The CMMs Mission. 

glance ; but she had the face of an angel as she 
lay in her pure beauty on the couch of pain. She 
was dying, — that sweet child, — she was leaving a 
world of care and strife for the ^^ still waters and 
green pastures" of paradise. It was a dark and 
solemn road which her little feet must now trav- 
erse, and there was many a vague terror in the 
''valley of the shadow of death''; yet was she 
calm, and, as it seemed, sustained by angel minis- 
try. The student remembered no more his dreams 
of ambition, his half-finished researches into the 
mysteries of science. Chained to the magic glass 
which brought near to him the creature who so 
strangely influenced his untamable mind, he did 
naught but watch the movements of the dying 
child. At last — it was the sunset hour — the 
watcher saw a stir in the quiet apartment. A lit- 
tle couch was brought forward to the open win- 
dow ; the child was laid upon it, and, supported 
in the arms of a sorrowing woman, she looked 
forth upon the glorious sky and upon the faded 
garden, which had now borrowed a transient 
beauty from the evening glow. Just then her 
bird, which hung beside the window, poured forth 
a gush of song. For a moment her own happy 
look came back again with all its former sunni- 
ness; she raised her sweet face toward the aged 
man who bent over her, and, pressing her lips to 
his withered cheek, fell back upon her pillow. 



The Child's Mission. 215 

The student started, and covered his eyes with 
his hands. Then he looked again — he beheld 
only the rigid face of the dead. On the evening 
of the day preceding the funeral the student 
sought the dwelling of his wealthy neighbors. 
He came as a suppliant, and from the gray -headed 
negro who unclosed the door he sought permis- 
sion to look upon the face of the shrouded child. 
It was a strange request, but sorrow had hum- 
bled the proud hearts of her friends, and they 
were touched by this spontaneous sympathy in a 
stranger. He was led into a stately chamber and 
left alone with the dead. A moment he gazed 
upon that face, so full of calm, pure beauty ; for 
the angel of death had given a hallowed loveli- 
ness to those childish features. A moment he 
stood, as if striving to nerve himself by the cold 
teachings of reason ; then, yielding to the impulse 
of the awakened soul within him, he fell on his 
knees beside that coffined form. Who may dare 
describe the emotions which then shook his soul f 
In that dread moment he learned the mystery of 
his being. It was no earthly passion which then 
flooded his heart with tears. It was no appeal to 
human reason that had so drawn him from his 
selfishness. No ; there came to him a startling, a 
crushing consciousness that the spirit he had so 
often grieved was asserting itself within him. 
The wondrous eye of thought beheld at a glance 



216 The Child's Mission. 

the whole mighty mystery. He had struggled 
and toiled to make himself superior to humanity, 
and there lay before him the dead form of a sim- 
ple child, whose bright existence, brief almost as 
a sunbeam, had rebuked all his wisdom. The 
strong man, who had exalted human reason until 
to his eyes it assumed almost godlike proportions, 
stood awed and confounded before a lifeless babe 
— a creature who had given back an unsullied 
soul to the Being who breathed into her the breath 
of life. She had been as a joy and brightness 
upon earth. Pain and grief came not nigh her; 
toil and care touched her not ; her mind was yet 
as the unmolded wax ; yet she had fulfilled her 
earthly mission, and risen higher in the scale of 
being, through her spotless purity, than all the 
efforts of human reason could ever have lifted 
her. He who had laughed to scorn the teachings 
of religious truth, because they were above and 
beyond mere reasoning, now bowed himself down 
in grief beside the child, and acknowledged that 
he felt within him the stirrings of a nobler prin- 
ciple than the intellect he had so prized. 

The student wept; his cold and stony nature 
melted with tears as he recognized the truth which 
that fair child had come across his path to teach. 
From the depths of his nature rose up a cry, which 
Grod's mercy interpreted as a prayer. He rose 
from his knees, he bent himself over the icy fore- 



The Child's Mission. 217 

head of the child, until the breath of his own lips 
came back to him from the cold brow of the dead. 
He did not desecrate her by a touch, but, taking 
from the casket a rosebud that had lain upon her 
bosom, he turned away in loneliness and sorrow, 
yet with a consciousness that the lamp of God 
had been rekindled within him. Many years after- 
ward there dwelt among the red men of the West 
a humble and devoted missionary. The Indians 
loved him as a father, and when he sought to 
shape their crude notions of Deity with some- 
thing like a spiritual faith, they listened with rev- 
erence to his teachings. His labors seemed almost 
fruitless and his rewards few. Time had bowed 
his form and dimmed the fire of his eye, yet with 
childlike simplicity he taught the childlike faith 
to which alone his people could listen. It was 
known that he came from afar, and some travel- 
ers who encountered him in the land of ocean 
lakes discovered that he was learned in all the 
wisdom of the schools. When asked why he thus 
buried in the deep forest gifts which might arouse 
the world's great heart, his answer was simple and 
touching : " I was an unbeliever until the uncon- 
scious teachings of a child awakened my soul, 
and therefore do I come to render back my debt 
to the child-men of nature, the sons of the wil- 
derness." 



^m^ib^ummcr jfantic^* 




The Voice of the Charmer. 

(Pleasure.) 

) ^^(^ HERE was once a child, a noble and 
beautiful boy, who, despising the pas- 
times of his companions, found all his 
pleasure in the woods and wilds. The 
more inaccessible was the mountain pass, the bet- 
ter he loved to tread its rugged way ; the deeper 
the mountain torrent, the more tempting seemed 
its cool waters. Gentle and docile as a babe in all 
things else, in this he was not to be curbed by the 
will of others, but would wander for days in the 
deep forest and heap up his bed of dried leaves 
on the very brink of the most frightful precipices. 
Wearied and heated, he entered one day into a 
dark and narrow dell, whose sides were so pre- 
cipitous and so thickly clothed with trees, that 
only at noonday could the sunshine glitter on the 

218 



Midsummer Fancies. 219 

thread-like stream which wound it way through 
the deep ravine. The cool freshness of the place, 
the shadowy twilight diffused around the soft, 
thick turf, which the moisture from the hillside 
kept as green as a living emerald, all invited him 
to repose. So the boy flung himself beside the 
rivulet, and resting his head on the mossy roots 
of a gigantic oak, was fast sinking into slumber 
when he was aroused by the faint murmur of 
music. Like a chime of fairy bells came that 
sweet, low, ringing tone, so faint, yet so distinct 
upon his ear. Yet it roused him not from his 
repose; it chased away the heavy vapors from 
his brain, and brought sweet, delicious dreams, 
but it did not fully awake him. His heart 
seemed melting within him, and a tremulous and 
thrilling torpor was fast creeping over his limbs. 
But even while the inarticulate singing of that 
wonderful melody was in his ears, he felt rather 
than saw a marvelous light shining before him. 
The starry diamond, the wave-lighted emerald, 
the heaven-tinted sapphire, the sunset-hued opal, 
the shadowless chrysolite, and the crimson-hearted 
ruby, all seemed melted and blended with that 
ray which flashed and faded and again gleamed 
gloriously before his half-shut eye. The boy 
grew faint with delight. The music and the 
shifting splendors of that ray seemed to him one 
and the same. He knew not whether his eye be- 



220 Midsmmner Fancies. 

held those chiming bells or his ear was blessed 
with that rich harmony of colors. Sometimes he 
struggled faintly to arouse himself, and he ever 
caught sight of a dimly outlined form, coiled and 
twisted like the cable of a mighty ship, which 
seemed hiding itself behind that wondrous light. 
But the music would ring out a sweeter peal, the 
changeful tints of that marvelous splendor would 
flash athwart his sight, until the boy sank back 
again upon his mossy pillow dazzled and sick 
with beauty and delight. Noon came and went, 
sunset gilded the green earth, night flung her 
shadowy veil over all nature, the quiet stars 
looked down into the deep, dark dell where the 
boy was lying; yet that music paused not, and 
those wondrous hues were fadeless. For him 
nature had but one voice and life but one aspect ; 
all was beauty and bliss in that deep intoxication 
of soil and spirit. On the morrow an aged man 
who had gone forth to meditate at eventide found 
the boy still lying on the soft turf, with his head 
yet resting on its mossy pillow. But the warm 
breath stirred not now those clustering curls, and 
his glazed eye was strained wildly open, as if 
some brief and terrible agony had roused the 
sleeper in his life's last hour. He was dead, that 
young and gentle boy ; he had died in that dream 
of beauty, but upon his lip was a purple spot, 
and a single drop of blood had fallen upon his 



Midsummer Fancies. 221 

white bosom. Then said the sage, " He hath 
slept upon the den of the basilisk, and it is the 
queen of the serpents who hath bewildered and 
slain him." As he spoke the flashing of those 
marvelous tints troubled his aged eyes, and a 
creature of strange beauty, bearing upon its head 
a crown from whence came this wondrous light, 
reared itself from the mossy root of the old tree, 
while the chiming of those mystic bells now came 
with articulate voice. " I slew him not," sang the 
voice, — '^I slew him not. I breathed a dream 
of beauty into his spirit, and his human nature 
sank beneath its sweetness. I did but kiss his 
fresh lips, and lo ! his soul came forth from its 
prison-house." " Child of perdition ! " cried the 
sage, " the hour cometh when thy dazzling crown 
shall be torn from thy serpent brow, and thy voice 
of music shall be changed unto the wail of ever- 
lasting despair." ^^But till then," sang the sweet 
and melancholy voice, ''till that evil time cometh, 
will men listen to my singing, and look upon my 
beauty, and die in the madness of their dream." 



<Il^b^iutimct jfancic^. 



The Vine. 

{Loyalty.) 




N the remotest corner of a luxuriant 
^^ but neglected garden there had sprung 
up a rare vinCj which scarce lifted her 
head above the cherishing bosom of 
earth, when she began to put forth her slender 
tendrils, and to seek the support which her frail 
strength demanded. But she found no congenial 
associates in that lonely spot, where grew only 
tangled clumps of flowers, knots of untrimmed 
shrubbery, and gnarled and twisted old fruit- 
trees. So the poor little vine crept along the 
thick, soft grass, and tried to hide herself from 
all eyes. Humbly and sorrowfully she stole on 
her lowly way until she had traveled beyond the 
limits of that wild thicket, and found herself en- 
tering upon a new and untried path. Then a 

222 



Midsummer Fancies. 223 

sense of loneliness came upon her, and she would 
have gone back to her dreary birthplace, but the 
briery arms of the thick bushes spread before the 
path she had just traversed, and she was fain to 
go forward, seeking some quiet nook in which to 
find shelter and defense. At last the wandering 
vine reached the foot of a tall and stately column, 
which had been reared long before in honor of 
some hero of the olden time. She was wearied 
with her long travel, and heated with the noon- 
day sun, therefore the polished marble felt cool 
and refreshing to the lonely wayfarer. So she 
twined her tiny arms around the broad base of 
the towering pillar, and when she saw how much 
beauty her dark and shining leaves imparted to 
the white and glittering stone, she said, '' Here 
will I remain, for while I can find the strong sup- 
port my helplessness demands, I can give back in 
return freshness and beauty." 

Happy in her humble hope, she sought no fur- 
ther, but twined her rich foliage around the 
column, quite unconscious that while she was 
affording new adornment to the tall pile, she was 
also lifting her own head higher and nearer to 
heaven. Carefully did she train her leaves over 
every defacing stain in the snowy marble ; closely 
she clasped her tendrils in the crevices which time 
had made in the chiseled stones; tenderly did 
she hold back her clustering fruit from overshad- 



224 Midsummer Fancies. 

owing the delicate tracery of sculpture which 
adorned its towering shaft. But never did she 
think of herself, or strive to lift herself higher for 
her own sake, or seek to display her own grace- 
fulness. With the sweet humility of a loving 
nature she cherished a double tenderness for the 
proud and hardy nature on which she leaned, and 
thought of infolding it more closely in her own 
more abounding luxuriance. Now there were not 
wanting stately and lofty trees who would fain 
have won her from her clinging embrace of the 
cold and uncongenial marble. She was not lovely 
and blooming like the rose, but her leaves made 
sweet music with the winged winds, her blossom 
was fragrant as the voluptuous honeysuckle, and 
the odor of her purple fruit was like the glowing 
breath of the wine-cup. Therefore the oak and 
the elm tree besought her to turn from the cold 
stone, and find a sweeter companionship witla. 
them. But the vine only laughed merrily at their 
wooing, or if they sorrowfully entreated her, she 
flung toward them a single wandering branch, 
and gave them in kindliness and sympathy a por- 
tion of the sweetness whose full treasure was be- 
stowed upon love alone. The stately column had 
rejoiced in the freshness of the clinging vine. 
Cold as he seemed, the proud marble was not ut- 
terly insensible to the tenderness of her embrace ; 
but his nature was not responsive, and sometimes 



1 



Midsummer Fancies. 225 

the vine felt a chill from the very heart of the 
massive stone strike shudderingly through her 
tender frame. But only for a moment she heeded 
this, and then she would turn herself to the glad 
sunshine, cheating herself into the belief that the 
frozen shaft on which she leaned had grown 
warmer beneath her touch, when it was only the 
genial glow of the summer piercing its very breast. 
When the mild, soft days of autumn had come 
and gone, the vine was despoiled of her fruit, and 
her foliage grew brown and sere. The breath of 
approaching winter chilled the air, and tempestu- 
ous winds swept through the dismantled garden, 
scattering leaf and blossom in the dust. Then 
did the vine cling closer to the column, for she 
knew the season of storms was coming, and she 
soon would need the support of a stronger frame 
and a hardier nature. But the shapely pillar was 
ashamed of the blighted leaves and brown tendrils 
of the vine. He did not spurn her from him, but 
neither did he clasp her to his sheltering bosom, 
for he had ever received and never given back her 
caresses. So the neglected vine hung her head in 
sorrow, and timidly loosened her strong clasp of 
love. Soon came a whirlwind's rending blast, and 
torn from the polished shaft the gentle vine lay 
crushed and wounded at the base of the insensate 
column. ^' Come to me now in the day of thy 
desolation," said the oak, " and I will cherish thee 



226 Midsummer Fancies. 

in my strong arms." " Give me but one clasp of 
those faded tendrils, and thou shalt be my pride 
and my joy forever," sighed the elm. But the 
vine lifted not her weary head. "I did mistake 
endurance for affection," murmured she; ^^and yet 
when I gave so much, should I not have won back 
some return ? Alas ! I have but wasted my youth- 
ful freshness and my clinging faith ; yet the snow- 
white shaft where first I found repose still lifts 
itself upward to the skies, and the humble vine 
must die in vain and unregarded loyalty at its 
foot." 




3 



